


Quiet In My Town

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Death References, Gen, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

When Arthur stopped working, Eames didn't notice at first. Eames was busy with his own work after all, whether it was actual _working_ or just dicking around in whatever place he fancied. He and Arthur didn't work together on every job together because a lot of the jobs Arthur took seldom needed a forger, so he didn't think anything of it when he didn't get a call from the point man over the course of months.

It was only when other people started talking about how he'd fallen off the grid that Eames started to pay attention. He listened while this extractor or that architect whispered about how the best point man in the business had just quit, that he'd only recently made his presence known in the dreaming business again and that he was only doing his work over the internet and sending it to the people who needed the information. No one had actually _seen_ him in several months.

After a little more fishing, Eames found out he'd been missing for about three months.

After some more digging, Eames found out the e-mail Arthur had been sending all of his information from.

After some intense searching, he managed to figure out the address of Arthur's high rise apartment, not far outside of Los Angeles.

Now, it seems appropriate to mention that Eames wasn't desperately hunting down Arthur for any major reason. He actually quite liked a challenge, and Arthur always presented him with one. That was all that was to it. He wasn't terribly concerned about the man's safety since he could damn well take care of himself, and he was still working, so clearly he wasn't being held prisoner. They had fucked once in Amsterdam (Eames was drunk) and once in Germany (Arthur was), but their relationship didn't go any further than their somewhat playful rivalry. In fact, after the night in Germany, after Arthur had accidently gone back on his promise to not let the one night stand become more than that, the banter had all but stopped. Arthur had distanced himself from Eames altogether, and Eames wasn't terribly surprised. The man could be unbelievably cold when faced with the aspect of something serious that wasn't work coming into the equation. Eames had tried to explain that people could have one night stands with each other more than once, but Arthur thought that it was entirely too close to a casual fling which was entirely too close to a serious relationship. He would not be convinced otherwise.

Maybe that didn't make entirely too much sense, Eames looking for a man who clearly wanted nothing to do with him outside of work (as was everything with Arthur), but Eames wasn't one to lay down and die when given orders. In fact, he generally took great joy in defying them. When Arthur decided to delete himself from the dreamsharing world, Eames decided that he couldn't just accept that and move on. Curiosity would be the death of him surely, but he really wanted to know why Arthur was now a proverbial hermit when it came to working.

Sure, it could have been something as simple as Arthur lost his passport, but…

…well…

 _Nothing_ was ever that simple when it came to people in the dreamsharing biz. As committed to work as Arthur was, he surely would have gotten over his little awkward feelings with Eames and just had him forge a new one.

So, he knocked on the door and waited.

He waited longer than a person would normally wait, since he knew Arthur never answered the door without a gun on his person somewhere.

The door cracked open with the chain still on, and Arthur's eyes widened just slightly. "How did you find me?" he asked almost as if he had been expecting him. Almost.

"Never tempt the best," Eames replied coolly. "You'll always lose."

Arthur just stood there staring, so Eames continued, "You didn't really make it that difficult with the e-mail address after all. I just traced the fake address back to your real one, traced the I.P. address from your real one, found your home address, and here I am. It only took me twenty minutes."

Actually it had taken him four days, but it wasn't like Arthur needed to know that. If he was going to gloat, he figured he might as well go all in.

"Why are you here?" Arthur asked then, blinking slowly. He looked really tired, Eames thought… more tired than usual.

"Don't you know how dangerous it is to do your job from home? To stay in one spot? People can track you down that way. Also, as a point man, I'm sure you're aware that your information is more likely to be read if you're there informing them of it. Do you honestly think everyone is going to comb over your extensive histories in eight point font until they have it memorized?"

"None of this so far has had anything to do with you," Arthur replied, rubbing his temple. "Should I just keep waiting for you to explain or can I shut the door now?"

"I heard you were missing, and I wanted to know why," Eames said simply. Lecturing wasn't really his style anyway.

"It's complicated," Arthur said vaguely.

"I've got time."

"I don't," Arthur replied, going to shut the door, but Eames shoved against it, and while Arthur was powerful in his speed and agility, Eames still made up for it in brute strength. "What?" Arthur complained.

"I've got a job coming up in a few months in India. Interested?"

"You already know about the job, but they're not meeting yet?"

"I'm the only one who knows about it," Eames shrugged.

"So, you're extracting on this one then."

"Indeed. It's a favor for a friend."

"In other words, you owe somebody money."

"Something like that," Eames said, grinning a little. Arthur knew him so well. Eames never did favors for friends. "Interested?" he asked again.

"How much does it pay?"

"How much do you want?"

Arthur silently appraised him, pursing his lips. "You can go to India. I'll help you, but I'm staying here."

"Which brings us back to 'why'," Eames said, leaning against the doorframe, invading as much personal space as he could.

"Eames, I don't—" Arthur started but suddenly there was a sound of something crashing to the floor from somewhere in the apartment, and Arthur turned at the sound, expression that of someone who wanted to be angry but couldn't find the strength.

Arthur really did look weary. He hadn't shaved, and his hair was falling loose.

"Let me in, darling," Eames said gently.

Arthur shut the door, and for a moment Eames expected it to stay that way, but then he heard the chain move.

Eames opened the door to find Arthur briskly making his way down the hallway and swinging open a door. "What the fuck—how did that happen?" he asked, voice strained.

Eames approached quietly and peeked over Arthur's shoulder to see a teenage boy sitting in the middle of the floor in front of a laptop with a broken screen.

The boy was scrawny and lanky with short dark hair. He was pallid like he never saw daylight and his eyes were so pale blue they were almost white. His shirt was so big on him that it slid down one shoulder, and his jeans had holes in the knees, and he stared up at Arthur with a clenched jaw and troubled eyes, hands planted between his knees.

He glanced at Eames and then looked back to Arthur, staring him down but saying nothing.

"Who is this?" Eames asked Arthur, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you holding him hostage or something?"

"He's my brother," Arthur replied emptily, kneeling down to pick up the damaged laptop and set it gently on the bed in the room. As soon as Arthur said it, Eames knew it was true. He recognized the familiar slope of the nose, the familiar shape of the lips, the same long fingered hands and dark hair.

"Owen, this is Eames. He's a guy I work with."

The boy (Owen apparently) looked Eames up and down but didn't move from his spot on the floor.

"Owen, did you drop it on accident?" Arthur asked, but he sounded as though he already found the prospect hopeless.

Owen turned his gaze on Arthur again but still said nothing. He never even opened his mouth.

Arthur rolled his eyes and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

"So, your ah—brother is ahm… interesting. Is he visiting you?" Eames asked awkwardly as he watched Arthur slump into a chair at the small table by the window that was stacked high with paperwork.

"He lives here," Arthur replied tiredly. "I'm his legal guardian. The mother and father were killed, and I'm the only one who could take him in. Otherwise he would have gone to a home."

Eames was baffled and rendered speechless for a moment. "So, that's why you can't go on jobs?" he finally managed to say, and he was mentally kicking himself for saying it. Even he knew that it was a bit tactless to talk about work when someone had just mentioned that their parents had been killed, but he wasn't sure what else to talk to Arthur about.

"He doesn't know about mind crime or any of that stuff. I figured it'd be safer to just keep him here so that he can go to school when fall comes. He's already been uprooted enough." Arthur didn't sound sympathetic to the boy's plight or anguished over the fate of his parents. He just sounded _tired_ , and that was it. "Don't talk about it. I don't want him getting any ideas that I'm working in an illegal business."

"You think he'll tell someone?"

Arthur snorted bitterly. "Doubt it. He hasn't said one goddamned word since he got here two months ago. All he's done is destroy my stuff and stare at me like _I_ fucking did it."

"It sounds like he could deal with a little therapy," Eames said, offering Arthur a cigarette when it was clear the pack the point man was grabbing at didn't have any inside. "Didn't you quit smoking by the way?"

"Old habits die hard," Arthur grumbled, taking it and lighting it. "He's already been to therapy. He doesn't talk there either. He can't really be mentally evaluated if he won't fucking say anything. They can only say that he doesn't appear to be hearing voices, and he's probably just grieving. That's such bullshit, so I stopped it."

"Surely it must have been hard on him," Eames said. "My father had a heart attack when I was eleven, and I was devastated."

He wasn't sure why he revealed that information. He didn't normally reveal truths to anyone. Arthur probably thought it was a lie anyway.

"Aren't _you_ upset?" Eames asked after a moment.

"Fuck no," Arthur said around the cigarette while he was rolling up his sleeves. "I blew out of that place when I was sixteen and never looked back. I hated them both. Who cares if they're dead?"

It was extremely cold, even from Arthur.

Eames was sure the sound he heard coming from Owen's bedroom was that of the laptop being thrown against the wall.

"That's really not—"

"I _don't_ want to talk about it, Eames. Tell me about the India job," Arthur said, dropping his face into his freehand while his cigarette burned between the fingers of the other. Eames remembered the last time he'd seen a cigarette between those fingers in Germany in the dim light of his hotel room, both of them sweaty and naked and hazy from alcohol. He remembered how he'd had to snag it away when Arthur drifted off to sleep so that he wouldn't set the bed on fire.

Eames cleared his throat and banished the memory before he rewound it to something a little naughtier. He'd have to save that state of mind for later when he was alone in his hotel room or at least someplace private.

"Shouldn't you go investigate that noise?" Eames asked.

"I don't _care_ anymore," Arthur mumbled. "It's not _my_ laptop he's breaking. If he wants to break his own shit, I'm perfectly content with that because he's not breaking my shit anymore. India job, Eames."

Eames took a seat across from Arthur and started to explain that there was a rich sheik there that was suspicious that his son had been stealing his money, and he wanted them to go under and find out for sure. The job was going to be an easy one and a well-paying one which was next to impossible to come across. The job wouldn't go into session for a few months because his son was not returning from his travels until then.

It was just as Eames finished talking about it that the bedroom door down the hall opened and Owen padded into the room in sock feat, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his chest as if he was cold.

"I'm not buying you another laptop," Arthur said to him.

The boy didn't really look at either of them this time, choosing instead to dig in the refrigerator until he found a can of Dr. Pepper. He cracked it open and took a small sip, holding it with both hands.

"Close the fridge door," Arthur said.

The boy looked at him, pausing at sipping his soda and then proceeded to pour the rest of it onto the carpet.

"God damn it!" Arthur shouted, jumping to his feet.

The boy started taking things out of the refrigerator and throwing them on the ground, but he only managed to remove a head of lettuce, a jar of maraschino cherries, and a Tupperware container of leftovers before Arthur grabbed him sharply by the arm and dragged him back to the room he'd come from, slamming the door as soon as he'd thrown him inside.

Afterwards, he sank to the floor outside the door and sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Eames didn't join him on the floor but stood there with his hands in his pockets. "You haven't seen him since you were sixteen, so that would make him about four when you two were last together, correct?"

"Yeah, why," Arthur said flatly into his knees.

"Why did you take him in?" Eames couldn't help but ask. It didn't seem like Arthur had any affection for the child (not that he was making it easy), nor cared how he handled him when he'd been pushed to the end of his rope.

"I didn't think it'd be this bad," Arthur mumbled. "Fuck… I didn't even really decide. He just showed up on my doorstep. I couldn't turn him away. He's still… He's still my brother."

"You know, I took some courses in psychology in college," Eames said. "I majored in it actually."

"You didn't go to college. You were in the military."

"I had to pay for college somehow. What do you say to me sticking around and seeing if I can get him on better behavior? I'm really good with people, as you well know."

"As I well know, you're insufferable."

"It would give you a break from him at least. Come on, Arthur, I'm not even asking for anything in return. Given our history, I feel like I owe you some sort of service at least. We're not best mates by any means but—"

Arthur looked up at him resignedly, and the bags under his eyes were so heavy. "If you could just get him to stop screaming at night, I'd appreciate it. I'll do the India information for you no charge if you can just… do something."

Eames wasn't sure why he offered to help, and really curiosity was his only answer. He hadn't gotten to stretch his legs in mental evaluations in a while, and he liked the idea of getting Owen to talk and beating Arthur by doing it first (everything was a competition with them, it seemed, so why not this too?). Plus, Eames didn't trust ninety-nine percent of the people he knew, but Arthur was of the one percent he did, so when Arthur was looking desperate he couldn't help but oblige. He may not have been the nicest guy in the world, but he wasn't heartless.

Also, there was the slimmest chance that sex would be involved again. He was always game for that.

* * *

The boy didn't make another sound or come out of the room for the rest of the night, and Arthur was up for most of that night communicating with an extractor over the internet. Apparently the man wasn't satisfied with Arthur's notes, claiming that there was too much unnecessary information. Arthur tried to inform him that there was no such thing as _unnecessary_ information being that dreams could go any kind of direction and preparation for anything was necessary for a successful extraction, that he'd weeded out anything that could be avoidable for this particular job. It led from that to Arthur angrily typing that if the extractor didn't want to actually _read_ the information, then maybe he shouldn't have hired a point man and wished him luck going into the man's subconscious without knowing anything about whether he was militarized or not, to have fun in limbo.

Eames read all of this idly over Arthur's shoulder in intervals, taking time to cook himself up a meal of some kind of pasta and meat, experimenting by adding whatever he could find around Arthur's kitchen that he liked (within reason of course—he wasn't about to add cocoa powder or cereal to anything), since he hadn't eaten since before he'd gotten on the plane.

"Here," Eames said, setting a plate down next to Arthur just as he sent off another scathing e-mail.

Arthur looked at the plate and then up at Eames.

Eames shrugged, digging a fork into his own plate as he went to take a seat on the other side of the table.

"You made me dinner?" Arthur asked flatly.

"No, I made _me_ dinner, but there was more than I needed, so I fixed you a plate," Eames said. "Try it. It's actually pretty good."

Arthur looked at him warily but actually took a bite. It made Eames feel good to know that Arthur trusted him not to poison him.

"What _is_ this?" Arthur asked, brow furrowing.

"I don't know, but it's good, right?"

"It's fine, but… you cooked it. Shouldn't you know what it—you know what, never mind."

After half a plate and a few more frantically typed e-mails, Arthur finally gave up for the night and went to bed. It was a shame that it was already four-thirty A.M. by then.

Eames fell asleep on Arthur's couch, wrapped in an afghan, wondering just what the fuck he was still doing there.

Well, despite the uncomfortable couch, at least he didn't have to pay for a hotel room. He'd play this game with Arthur's brother for a couple of days and afterwards get the hell out of L.A. with assurance that Arthur would be working for him (and he'd be getting his share of the pay). He didn't trust anyone else to get the information quite like Arthur did.

Eames was jolted awake when he heard rattling around in the kitchen. He lifted himself as quickly as he could, unconsciously scrambling for the gun holster under his shirt. He stopped himself when he realized that it was Owen, frozen in the light of the refrigerator, holding a milk carton and looking like a frightened puppy. He apparently hadn't expected Eames to be there.

"Didn't mean to scare you," Eames said, smiling in the attempt to relax the kid's nerves. "Your brother and I were working, and I must have fallen asleep…" The sunlight slipping in from the windows proved that it must have been morning.

The boy's shoulders slumped a little, and he shut the fridge before taking the milk to a bowl he'd set out and poured cereal into.

"So, ah…" Eames said, getting to his feet and stretching, "You like cereal, eh? Not many kids like Raisin Bran as far as I know…"

The boy stood at the counter, spooning said Raisin Bran into his mouth, staring but saying nothing.

"You and your brother look a little bit alike," Eames said, leaning against the counter.

The boy dropped his spoon into the cereal, looking down at it with disdain. Clearly, he did not like Arthur at all, and it wasn't like Eames could blame him after the way Arthur had treated him.

"He's a bit of a hard ass, isn't he?" Eames asked with a smirk. "All work and no play makes Arthur a right twat sometimes."

The boy blinked, looking a little confused, and then he looked down at the bowl again, and… he smiled a little, nodding.

Oh, dear, Eames thought with wonder, Owen had Arthur's dimples.

"He's not always like that, you know," Eames offered. "He can be a pretty nice guy if you get some liquor in him." Handsy too, but he figured Owen wouldn't want to know that. "I think he lets himself get too caught up in things and ends up bitching at other people. I don't think he even knows he does it. He's like a robot."

The boy snorted, biting down on his bottom lip as his smile widened against his will.

"If you like, I can talk to him. I can tell him to back off when it comes to you. He listens to me… well, sometimes he does. I mean, it can't hurt, right? It's worth a shot. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to avoid his wrath. I reckon throwing around his things isn't really the best way to get on his good side. Arthur's like an animal, you see? If you leave him alone, he'll leave you alone."

Quietly, "So is he a robot or an animal?"

"He's—" Eames paused. "Did you just speak?"

The boy looked back down at his cereal and shoved another mouthful between his lips and didn't say anything.

"Well," Eames said then, recovering from his falter, "for the record, he might be a robot animal… Like those creepy CGI ones you seen in the movies. That, or maybe he's one of those things from _Blade Runner_."

The boy made a face with a raised eyebrow, and he looked entirely too much like Arthur for Eames's taste at that moment.

"Wh—" Eames paused, mocking offense. "You've never seen _Blade Runner_? Harrison Ford? ' _All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain'_?"

The boy just stared.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you haven't _lived_ yet! Arthur really is abusing you. What movies does he let you watch? I hope it's not musicals and art films… not that there's anything wrong with those if they're good. You have to see this movie, kid. Oh, but you definitely need to see the director's cut and not the theatrical version. They bloody ruined it with a bad narration and deleted scenes from _The Shining_."

The boy took another bite of cereal, eyes curious and innocent.

"You have seen _The Shining_ , right?" Eames asked.

The boy shook his head.

"Kids these days don't know what good movies even _are_! This is bloody pitiful."

The boy grinned and sipped at the milk in his bowl.

Arthur was just walking into the room as Eames was shaking his head, rubbing his mouth with his hand and dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a wife-beater.

"You sick bastard, how dare you deprive him of _The Shining_ and _Blade Runner_?" Eames asked, pointing dramatically at Owen.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asked sleepily. He was so useless before his coffee, Eames thought.

"Oh, forget about it," Eames grumbled. "I am renting some films before I leave this apartment though. Oh, and by the way, I got him to speak. I told you I could." Actually, Eames wasn't sure if he'd told him that or not, but there was no point in taking it back now.

"Oh, really," Arthur said flatly. He clearly didn't believe him.

Eames gestured to Arthur when Owen looked at him in surprise. "Go ahead and say something. Prove that I'm right. Don't leave me high and dry here, mate."

Owen seemed to shrink as he went to put the bowl in the sink while Arthur started a pot of coffee. He clearly wasn't planning on speaking up.

"It was a nice try, Eames," Arthur said as he dug a red coffee mug out of the cupboard. Eames had seen him use it quite often at work, so it must have been his favorite one. "You haven't bet money on it though, so there's really no need to prove anything."

Owen suddenly snatched the mug out of Arthur's hand, and his sleep-addled brain didn't have the reflexes to stop him before he sent it flying towards the wall and shattering.

"FUCK!" Arthur shouted, and Owen stood defiantly, looking angry but not proud.

"Why do you always _do_ this?" Arthur continued, voice loud and strained and sounding both frustrated and fed up at the same time somehow. "Damn it, I—I didn't even _say_ anything to you. I don't ever _have_ to say anything to fucking set you off, you know? It's not really fair that you—I just… I… _fuck_ … what am I supposed to do? What do you fucking want me to do? Just be _silent_ all the fucking time? That might work for you, but it doesn't for me! Damn… Damn it…"

Owen slumped away to his bedroom while Arthur knelt down to pick up the pieces of the cup.

Eames watched the boy go, feeling like he'd just witnessed something he wasn't supposed to. "Ah… Arthur," he said gently, "it was only a coffee cup."

"Mal gave me this cup," Arthur said quietly, and he actually sounded almost _hurt_. Almost.

So, Arthur did have feelings after all, Eames thought.

He would bet that Owen did too.

"Would you like for me to ah—" Eames started awkwardly.

"Just leave me alone," Arthur mumbled, placing the handful of porcelain pieces on the counter in the same place where the boy had been eating his cereal, throwing himself into the same chair he'd sat in the night before, and opening his laptop to get back to work.

Eames shrugged and wandered off down the hallway, wondering why Arthur hadn't told him to leave yet, that letting him stay even one night was a stupid mistake, just like the time in Germany and the time before that in Amsterdam. It seemed like something he would do, but then again, it also seemed that Arthur really didn't want to be alone with this teenage boy anymore at all. Perhaps the very reason he'd let Eames inside was because it gave him the opportunity to breathe for a second or to have someone to complain to at least.

Eames wondered how many people Arthur had seen since Owen started living with him. He'd put money on it being nobody (except for maybe Cobb once since he didn't live far, but Arthur never did like for Cobb to see him strained).

He found Owen back in his room, sitting on the bed, staring out the window with his pillow shoved between his chest and his knees.

Owen's room was plain. It had a bookshelf with lots of books, but it didn't look like any of them had been cracked open recently considering the layer of dust on top of them. It had a desk with a lamp on it and an empty space where his laptop probably used to be (it was now smashed in the corner underneath some crumbling plaster where it had actually hit the wall. There were clothes hanging in the closet, but Owen was wearing the same ones from the day before, and a lot of the clothes looked like they were Arthur's anyway. He didn't have a television set (he may have had one at one time, but considering how he liked to destroy things it was possible it had been taken away from him) or any pictures or posters. The room looked like a guest room because that was what it was.

"You all right there, sprog?" Eames asked.

"I hate him," he said, barely above a whisper. Eames had to struggle to hear him. "He thinks I'm obligated to feel happy to be here because he took me in. It's fucking bullshit. We don't even know each other."

"You could attempt to get to know him," Eames offered, shutting the door with a quiet click behind him before crossing to sit on the bed. It was weird playing mediator between Arthur and Owen, but there was a part of him that felt sympathetic to the kid since his parents had just died. He knew how alone he felt when his father died, and he still had his mother to go to then. "He's really not so bad all the time."

The boy shook his head, pressing his cheek against the pillow. He clearly had no interest in getting to know him or finding out how good or bad he could be.

The boy had been with Arthur for a while now, Eames remembered. It seemed like both of them were already done with each other.

…but again, Eames always did enjoy a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.

2.

Arthur spent most of the day on the computer or rifling through paperwork. He was apparently working more than one job at the same time just to have something to occupy his time that wasn't Owen-related. It was worrisome to watch when Eames knew that Arthur was (or at least used to be) a firm believer that working with two separate marks on two separate jobs was extremely dangerous.

Owen kept to himself and kept to his room most of the time, probably to avoid Arthur's wrath. Eames could tell he was on edge by the sharp line of his shoulders and of his mouth, and he began to believe that perhaps Arthur too was guilty of getting upset over seemingly nothing. Perhaps Owen and Arthur were too similar, and that was why they butted heads so much. He did wish the boy would attempt to speak to him at least though. At least then they could fight with their words and less stuff would be broken.

He wasn't about to mention it to Arthur though. He was clearly just waiting for something to give him a reason to go off. A wick waiting for a fire.

Eames was _not_ going to be that fire. Fuck that.

Instead, he went out and got a pizza for dinner, and all three of them sat around the table in silence, listening to the others chew. Arthur worked while he ate. Owen didn't look up from the table and only managed to eat one slice before getting up to go back to his room.

"Wait," Eames said, catching him by the wrist, and the boy looked at him like he'd smacked him. "I have films." Eames lifted up some rented DVDs he'd picked up on the way back home, waving them at the boy.

The boy looked at them and then at Eames and then detoured to the couch, folding up in the corner of it with his knees to his chest.

Arthur actually looked up from his work then, expression unreadable which was the closest it had come to not being mad or exhausted since Eames had gotten there, and Eames just smiled lightly and settled in on the couch with the boy to watch _Blade Runner_.

He of course didn't say a word through the movie, but Eames considered it a personal victory that his eyes were glued to the screen the entire time. When he glanced over the edge of the couch to look at Arthur at the kitchen table and saw the point man quickly duck his head back down to pretend he wasn't watching it, he was sure it was a victory.

The little victory had long since been forgotten about when, during the middle of the night, he was shattered out of sleep to the sound of _screaming_.

Arthur had mentioned that he screamed in his sleep sometimes. Eames only now remembered that as he caught himself from falling off of the couch. He managed to get to his feet without a panicked injuring of himself and made his way down the hall towards Owen's room.

Arthur was already awake, leaning against the doorway with his arms hugged around his chest. If Eames didn't know him better, he would have sworn he was on the brink of tears… but he _did_ know better. Arthur never cried. He didn't even cry at Mal's funeral.

Eames opened the door to find the boy thrashing in his bed, battling imaginary ghosts and screaming, screaming, screaming.

"Hey, now," Eames said gently, and he could feel Arthur's presence had moved from the doorway of his own room to the doorway of Owen's room.

Eames took a seat at the edge of the bed and cradled him, not sure what else to do. He certainly couldn't just leave him screaming, and he was pretty sure shouting at him to shut up would likely agitate the situation. The only thing he could think of was to try to soothe the nightmares the way his mother had done for him after his father died all those years ago.

"It's all right, you're all right, you're safe," Eames said. He wondered if it would do any good. He didn't even know what the boy was dreaming about. "Everything's all right."

After a few minutes, he seemed to relax, dropping his arms and silencing his screaming to just breathe haggardly.

"You back with us then?" Eames asked after a moment and was caught by surprise when the boy threw his arms around his neck and whimpered into his shirt. He looked to Arthur and again his expression was unreadable, like he was trying to read something in a language he didn't understand. "Everything's okay now."

Eames stayed with the boy, awkwardly rocking him back and forth until his breathing evened out, and he fell asleep. Eames tucked him in and even smoothed the hair on his forehead the way his mother always did.

He missed her. He wished she was still alive.

"Eames," Arthur said when Eames quietly shut the door. He was still hunched there in the hallway, clearly awake now. "Why—"

"I had to do _something_ ," Eames replied simply. "Did you ever think that maybe being gentle was the way to go?" He wasn't accusing Arthur of anything, merely making a suggestion, but he feared that he might have been allowing himself to be the fire to his wick after all.

Instead, Arthur said, "I did… I… he um… he wouldn't let me touch him. He punched me and I… I just gave up on it after that."

"I don't remember you ever being a quitter, Arthur," Eames said, smiling at him a little. He'd never admit it out loud, but Arthur was borderline _precious_ when he had bedhead and was wearing his baggy pajama pants and shirt. No, no, _that_ would be the fire to the wick. _That_ would be the bullet in Eames's head.

Arthur rubbed at his eyes, sighing. "I know… I _know_ that, but… fuck…"

Eames had a sudden urge to reach out and run his hands through Arthur's tangled mess of hair, but he resisted it. Instead he followed Arthur into the living room and sat with him, smoking.

"I only went to bed an hour ago," Arthur said with a huff when he saw the time on the stereo. Arthur was the only person Eames knew who would actually set the clocks on his things. "I've been struggling with trying to figure out the work schedule of one of the marks I'm working on… People don't just do nine-to-five stuff anymore apparently. It's going to be difficult to find a time to take her under. She has _no_ medical appointments, no plans to leave the country, nothing. It's really…" Arthur ran his hands over his hair in an eerily Cobb-like fashion. "It's really frustrating."

"Now, I'm not normally one to tell anyone how to do their job, especially when they're better at it than I am," Eames said, unabashedly staring at one of the moles on Arthur's neck. He had kissed there in Germany. "I can't tell you much of anything about being on point really because looking after people was never my strong point, understanding them was… but, if I may be so bold, I do believe you may be working yourself a bit too hard, don't you think?"

Arthur looked at him as if he was an idiot, the warm light from his cigarette just barely reaching to flicker across the line of his face, and Eames was going back to that night in Germany again and had to stop himself. "It's just hard to maintain things from a distance," Arthur said. "If I could have tailed her, I would have had the information within three days."

"That's precisely the point, isn't it?" Eames offered and then blew smoke rings. "You're making things harder on yourself. You're bloody torturing yourself, locking yourself up in this apartment with the sprog."

"You think I never should have taken him in."

"Not at all," Eames replied lightly, lowering his cigarette and looking at Arthur fondly. "I'm just impressed by you is all. Despite your reservations, and despite your agitations, despite the difficulties you faced in work and with living with another person and committing to a life changing decision, you still stood by your choice. It's admirable, yeah?"

"Owen doesn't seem to think so," Arthur said, and he was looking tired again.

"Well, you haven't handled things _perfectly_ by any means, darling… ah, no offense… but I do think you're both trying. I think you're both just going about it the wrong way."

"The wrong way?" Arthur asked flatly, a smirk threatening to make its way onto his lips.

"Yeah, you know… the yelling and the throwing things. That boy has some hang-ups, Arthur, and well… he bloody _hates_ you. I don't know why, but he does. I do think you could help prevent that if you made him feel a bit more welcome though, don't you think? Let him get some things for his room or some new clothes. Speak nicely to him and let him get away with some things."

"I'm not good with people," Arthur replied awkwardly. "I just… I can't get him to do _anything_. I don't have to say anything to set him off, and he just frustrates me and I can't… I…" He sighed again, dropping his head.

Eames felt the urge to place a hand between his shoulder blades, and this time he didn't manage to suppress it. He rubbed Arthur's back sympathetically, enjoying the warmth emanating through the back of his shirt.

"Why are you still here, Eames?" Arthur asked then, not going to remove the hand but not relaxing into the touch either.

"I told you I would help you," Eames replied, smoothing the wrinkles on Arthur's shirt unconsciously. "I don't go back on a promise unless I have a bloody good reason."

"You don't make promises unless you have a 'bloody good reason' either. Why promise me anything?"

"Would it be insulting if I told you I enjoyed the idea of the challenge since I've been working non-stop and like taking a break to work on a new 'project'?"

Arthur snorted and managed to smile a little, letting only one dimple reveal itself. "Thanks… Eames."

"Don't thank me yet. Let's see what happens first," Eames said.

He did resist the urge to kiss his cheek.

* * *

When Eames woke up the next morning, it was because he was hearing the sound of the television, albeit with the volume down low. When he opened his eyes, he saw Owen sitting up close to the set so that he could hear, and the movie _Blade Runner_ playing again on the screen. He'd gotten about halfway through it.

"All right there, sprog?" Eames asked sleepily, and the boy flailed, scrambling into the corner, clearly frightened out of his wits at the sudden voice. Eames rose, scratching his head and said, "Now, now, no need for that. It's just me."

The boy seemed to relax then, sinking in his corner like a ragdoll that had been thrown against the wall.

Eames looked at the clock. It was only six in the morning. He hummed, scrubbing his neck with his palm and then said, "Breakfast?"

Owen stared in confusion.

"We get dressed. We go out. We get breakfast?" Eames offered again, more slowly as if the boy didn't know the process.

Owen bit down on his bottom lip, looking at the floor for a moment and then slowly got to his feet. He was still in the same clothes.

"How about you shower first, and then I'll shower, and then we'll go?" he paused. "Actually, does Arthur have a shower in his room?"

Owen shrugged. Eames realized that he'd probably never been in there, what with his habit for breaking things.

"You go shower. I shall also do the same," Eames said, digging a fresh pair of clothes out of his suitcase at the end of the couch.

Owen slumped off to do as he was told, and really Eames _knew_ that Arthur would be jealous if he knew how easily the boy listened to him.

Eames meanwhile, slipped into Arthur's room, and of course he had a master bath (Eames vaguely thought that Arthur's apartment was entirely too nice to be an apartment). He walked across the floor, overstepping some of the scattered clothing he'd left about in his haste to get to sleep, and set his clothing on the counter in the bathroom.

He ventured a glance back at Arthur who was mumbling and turning over, but Eames knew he was still asleep. His hair had gotten (if possible) more crazed during the night, and he'd kicked the sheets down around his waist, revealing where his shirt had been hiked up to his chest on one side. It was almost unfair that he could be a proverbial 'Sleeping Beauty' even when he looked like that.

Eames shut the bathroom door quietly and started the shower. After stripping down and checking the water with his hand, he stepped inside and sighed in relief as the heat hit the bones on his sore back. He really needed to find some other place to sleep than that couch (and Arthur's queen-sized bed sure did look comfortable).

"Keep living that dream," he mumbled to himself with a chuckle as he poured some of Arthur's coconut shampoo into his hand and scrubbed it through his hair. The smell practically punched him in the face with the memory of Arthur crying out beneath him. He'd smelled so much like coconut. He'd never changed shampoos.

Eames swallowed thickly and tried hard to banish the thought, and with some effort, he did. Afterwards however, he was still unsettled by the fact that it had been there at all, whether or not Arthur was in his immediate vicinity. Now that he had some time to think (and Eames always thought best in the shower, provided that he was alone in the shower), he came to the realization that he had not thought of previous flings and trysts quite as much as he had thought about his flings and trysts with _Arthur_. He could have just passed it off as a 'smashing good time' (if he wanted to be stereotypical), but the problem was… well…

The sex hadn't been _that_ good. Sure, it had been good, but Eames had had better sex. It was never quite as good when one party, or both parties rather, were sloppily drunk… and they had been sloppily drunk during both events (especially Arthur on that second one—the man absolutely could not hold his liquor). Still, he'd hung on to those nights, remembered them fondly, and fantasized about them on occasion (and those occasions seemed to be getting more often, apparently). He didn't know why.

He didn't know why he remembered the exact way Arthur smiled against his chest, the way his eyelashes had fluttered and the way his fingers had bruised his arms when he'd held on as if he was going to go tumbling off into nothingness, like he was afraid to let go. Eames tried to convince himself that these ideas only sprung forth in his mind specifically because everything that had happened was so un-Arthur-like that it was borderline bizarre.

He wasn't sure of how effective that convincing was.

Eames scrubbed himself down with soap, telling himself to focus on the task at hand, to stop thinking about Arthur when he was standing in Arthur's shower, and for the moment it worked.

He was just about to shut off the water when he heard the bathroom door open. "Eames, what are you doing in my shower?" Arthur asked in annoyance.

"Showering," Eames replied simply, turning off the water and pushing back the door. It wasn't like Arthur hadn't seen him naked before. "Why, what do you do when you're in the shower?"

Arthur grunted in response, splashing water on his face to get rid of the eye gunk. "At least put a towel on, you barbarian," he grumbled.

"Oh, please, you and I both know I'm bloody gorgeous, like a Greek God," Eames teased, toweling off his hair before wrapping it around his waist. "Shower's free now, if you'd like. Make it quick and you can come with me and Owen to get breakfast."

Arthur was tugging his shirt over his head, revealing milky white skin underneath. "I'm not much of breakfast eater," he mumbled, dropping the shirt on the floor and sliding out of his pants and underwear at the same time. Eames pretended he wasn't looking. "Do whatever you want." He started the shower and climbed inside.

Rather than leave, Eames instead lathered his face up with Arthur's shaving cream and started shaving with his razor.

"I don't remember giving you permission to use my things," Arthur said.

"I don't remember you _not_ giving me permission," Eames replied blithely.

Arthur sighed but didn't say anything else about it.

By the time he'd finished shaving and started getting dressed, Arthur was finished showering. Eames couldn't help but look when he got out, dripping wet and gleaming. He looked absolutely _delicious_.

Eames decided he really needed to get laid so he could stop daydreaming.

"Don't get any dumb ideas," Arthur mumbled, drying off his face before working the towel down his shoulders and chest. "I'd say take a picture because it would last longer, but knowing you, you'd actually go through with it."

"I was just thinking you're too skinny. You need to eat more. You should come get breakfast with us," Eames said, buttoning his shirt. "Don't just assume I'm having naughty thoughts about you, love. I'm not that much of a pervert."

"Forgive me if your past has pointed to the contrary," Arthur replied, almost smirking.

Eames chuckled and smacked shaving cream onto Arthur's cheek.

"Do you think you're funny?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Sometimes," Eames replied, slathering the shaving cream over his jaw.

Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words while Eames finished lathering up his jaw and started shaving him.

"I know how to shave my own face," Arthur said after a moment.

"You're useless before your coffee, darling, and you've had, what… four hours of sleep?"

"I've functioned just fine on less," Arthur said but tilted his chin back to let him shave his neck.

"You haven't shaved in at least three days," Eames said. "I just thought I'd make sure you didn't add a fourth day to that list."

"You make it sound like I'm on my way to a breakdown just because I chose not to shave for a few days," Arthur mumbled, trying to sound as if Eames was being ridiculous, but there was a grain of truth there, a sliver of admittance that sneaked through.

"I'm not saying anything of the sort. You just have such a pretty jawline is all."

Arthur snorted.

Apparently he didn't believe Eames was being completely serious. Eames didn't try to inform him otherwise, instead wiping off his jaw for him. "I used to work in a barbershop as a boy. It appears I've still got it."

"Is that even true?" Arthur asked, checking his reflection in the mirror.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Eames replied and left him to dress.

* * *

Arthur didn't go with them to breakfast.

Owen followed behind Eames, dressed in a slightly better fitting t-shirt and some equally holey jeans. He looked marginally better when he was freshly washed, short dark hair curling along his forehead as it dried in the L.A. sunlight.

He clearly didn't get out much. He was less familiar with the L.A. streets than Eames was, and he was very noticeably uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people.

"So, what do you like to eat?" Eames asked, slowing his pace so that Owen could catch up to him. "Arthur's not around, so you can talk."

"…I don't know… I'll eat whatever…" he said awkwardly. "I don't really have any money—"

"Don't even worry about it," Eames said, slapping his shoulder playfully. "I offered."

They ended up stopping at a McDonald's, and Eames ordered them both hot cakes and sausage and orange juice.

"Mr. Eames," Owen said when they were halfway through their breakfast, "I wanted to say I was sorry about last night. I um… I just get like that sometimes…"

Eames sipped at his orange juice before responding. "Do you always remember?"

"…no… sometimes I do… sometimes I don't…"

"Did you remember doing it when you punched Arthur?"

He hesitated for a long moment. "I… I didn't really… I mean… I knew he was there, but I didn't know it was him until after."

"So, you didn't mean to hurt him?" Eames asked. "I would have thought you wanted to, being that you hate him and all."

"…I didn't meant to hit him," was all Owen said, sipping at his orange juice and shoving a bite of sausage into his mouth.

It was then that Eames came to the conclusion that Owen didn't hate Arthur after all.

He wasn't about to pry, however, because he doubted Owen would admit to anything. The boy barely talked as it was, and he certainly wasn't going to admit that he wasn't completely done with Arthur.

Really though, it left Eames more curious than anything. Why did he show so much disdain for Arthur when, by the way he'd said he didn't mean to hit him, he clearly felt guilty? He couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the night terrors themselves. He'd studied dreams extensively when he'd joined up in the mind crime business, and he knew for a fact that generally night terrors only presented in children. In teenagers and adults they were usually trauma-related.

Then again, both parents dying could definitely be a good cause for trauma.

…but Eames didn't think that was it.

He didn't know why, but he didn't think that was it.

He bought a cup of McDonald's coffee on the way out to take back to Arthur.

As they were walking back to the apartment, Owen spoke up again. "So… why are you staying at Arthur's place anyway?"

"Ah—" Eames paused, trying to formulate an answer because he didn't actually have one. "Well, he and I work together. I'm helping him on a project."

"You can't do that from your place?"

"It's ah… easier for us to work on it together what with the time difference and all."

"What exactly do you guys even do?"

Eames dug into his arsenal of fake jobs and easily supplied, "Investment banking."

"You don't look like an investment banker."

"I believe in challenging stereotypes."

Owen smiled a little.

"If you're investment bankers, then why don't you guys have an office? Why doesn't Arthur ever leave the apartment?"

Eames hesitated just long enough to reveal he'd been caught in a lie.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Owen said. "If it's something you don't want me to know, I… I understand. Nobody tells me anything anyways."

"It's complicated to explain," Eames admitted, shoulders slumping in defeat. The boy was more intuitive than he'd given him credit for. He'd make sure to remember he was Arthur's brother and to remember to not underestimate him again. "I help him out because he's my mate. I'm telling you, he's really not so bad once you get to know him… at least most of the time he isn't so bad."

"Is that coffee for him?"

"Ah, yeah," Eames replied, and he wasn't sure why he felt nervous when the fact was brought up. Friends bought friends coffee. That wasn't weird. "He likes his coffee, and I figured I ought to bring him something back since we went without him."

" _Oh_ ," Owen said.

Eames cocked an eyebrow at him. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"What? I just said 'oh'."

"No, no, you didn't say 'oh', you said ' _oh_ '," Eames said accusatorily.

"What's the difference?" Owen asked, and the cheeky bastard was actually smiling as if he was challenging Eames.

"I don't know, you tell me," Eames said, and he wasn't pouting, he _wasn't_.

"I didn't mean anything by it. All that shit is in your head, Mr. Eames."

He sounded just like Arthur when he said _Mr. Eames_. Eames was pretty sure he shouldn't have noticed that. People didn't just _notice_ things like that, forgers or not.

"Ah, I see what you're getting at," Eames said with a smirk. "I get it. I know what you're thinking."

"Do you," Owen said, watching his feet. "Enlighten me."

"Stop talking like that. You sound like Arthur."

Owen frowned, displeased, apparently done playing the game when Eames was fighting dirty. The kid didn't know anything about fighting dirty of course.

"Why is that such an insult to you?" Eames asked. "I was just teasing. Arthur uses words like 'enlighten' and 'specificity' is all."

"Specificity?" Owen said, raising an eyebrow.

It reminded Eames of the first night in Amsterdam when Eames showed Arthur just how 'specific' he could be.

He cleared his throat, and Owen noticed.

"Oh, _sick_!" he shouted, and it was the loudest Eames had ever heard him. He didn't even recognize the voice.

"What? _What_?" Eames asked as the boy bolted up into the lobby of the apartment complex and took the stairs two at a time, a look of disgust on his face.

"Ugh, I was just kidding. Ugh, really? Sick, _sick_!"

"Don't go making assumptions about things you don't understand! What the fuck are you on about?" Eames asked, trying to keep up, but he wasn't as young as the boy.

Arthur opened the front door just as Owen grabbed the knob.

"Uh… hi?" he asked, noticing the heavy breathing and the storming by.

"You didn't even tell me you were a faggot, Arthur!" Owen shouted and slammed the door to his room behind him.

"Ah… I can explain," Eames said awkwardly, even though he really couldn't. Really, what had just happened?

"He just spoke to me," Arthur said, stunned.

"Oh," Eames said, equally stunned when he realized it was true. "Well then… that's progress, isn't it?"


	3. Quiet In My Town (3/6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.

3.

Owen didn't come out of his room for the rest of the day, and Arthur didn't seem to mind in the slightest, burying himself in his work until he was looking more strung-out and frazzled than he ever had. At five in the evening, Eames forced him to take a break by slamming his laptop shut and asking, "Have you eaten _at all_ today?"

"I…" Arthur said, pushing his glasses up on his nose as if trying to remember.

"Coffee doesn't count, darling," Eames said. Arthur had been downing cup after cup of coffee and chain smoking in between each one. Arthur's stomach growled in response, and he blushed out of embarrassment.

"I guess I forgot," Arthur said.

Eames rolled his eyes and decided to order Chinese take-out.

"Owen," he said, knocking on the door to his room. "I'm ordering Chinese. Do you want anything?"

Arthur, at his side, tensed as if he was waiting for something to go crashing against the door, but instead the door just opened.

"You like noodles, or pot stickers, or what?" Eames asked.

Owen looked down at his feet. "…I don't know…" he mumbled. "Whatever is fine…"

"I'll just order a bunch of things and you can pick at what you like, all right?" Eames offered, and Owen nodded weakly.

Eames then brushed his hand on Arthur's shoulder to signal that they should take their leave, but surprisingly Owen followed them into the kitchen where Arthur sat down to go back to work and Eames went to make the order. He sat on the couch flipping channels until Eames was done with the call and then peeked over the top of the cushions like a gopher from a hole.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said awkwardly.

Eames shrugged. Arthur just stared at him in confusion over the top of his laptop, like he didn't remember what had happened (and maybe he hadn't).

"I uh… didn't mean to imply that you two were um… you know…" Owen said, making an obscene gesture with his hands. Arthur's ears turned red and he hastily looked back down at his laptop.

Eames was wheezing he was laughing so hard. He had to clutch the counter to keep from falling to the floor.

Owen, fueled by Eames's laughter, turned to Arthur then with a smile and informed him, "but he does _want_ to fuck you, by the way."

Eames managed to subdue his laughter more or less, giggling like a child who'd just heard a curse word, wiping at his eyes with both hands.

And then Arthur said, never looking up from his work, "Oh. Yeah. I know that. I've always known that."

Eames was silent.

Owen was howling.

…and then Arthur did something Eames hadn't seen him do since he'd gotten there.

He truly, genuinely _smiled_ … and really, Eames couldn't even be offended or feel betrayed when Arthur was smiling like that.

…but he didn't let Owen see the smile, ducking back into his work when the boy poked his head back over the edge of the couch as his laughing fit subsided.

They most definitely had the same smile.

Eames picked his dignity up off of the floor and put in _The Shining_ , and he and Owen (and Arthur, though he pretended he wasn't) watched, Eames only pausing it thirty minutes in to get the Chinese from the door and pay the man.

It was about an hour into the movie, with Owen staring in horror at the events taking place on the screen, noodles hanging out of his mouth, that Eames looked over at Arthur who ducked his head down to pretend he was working again. "Arthur," Eames said, chuckling. "Just come and watch the film with us, love. You can take a little time off from that."

"No, Eames, I really can't," Arthur replied.

"Did he just call you _love_?" Owen asked, never peeling his eyes from the screen.

"It's a British thing," Arthur said in response without hesitation.

Eames smirked. "Arthur, seriously, come and sit and watch the rest of the film. It's only got forty-five minutes or so left in it. You can stop working for forty-five minutes."

"No, Eames, I _can't_ —this work needs to be ready by tomorrow morning, and—"

"Don't make me come get you and carry you over here."

Arthur huffed, smirking, "You wouldn't fucking _dare_."

"Was that a challenge?"

Eames always did enjoy a challenge. He'd already warned Arthur about that.

"No!" Arthur shouted, slamming his laptop shut and making a sprint for his room, but Eames had already leaped over the back of the couch and caught him around the waist before he even reached the hallway. Arthur scrambled in his arms, somehow managing to still hold onto his laptop, but Eames wasn't about to let go, even if he was laughing to the point that he couldn't breathe. "This isn't—this isn't funny, Eames! Let me go! Put—Put me down!"

Eames didn't let go and carried him kicking and screaming back to the couch before he sat him down between himself and Owen. Arthur harrumphed.

"I don't even like this movie," Arthur grumbled.

"How do you not like _The Shining_?" Eames asked, planting a hand on his shoulder as if to warn him that he would grab him again should he try to escape. Arthur didn't answer, instead choosing to put on his bitch-face, and Eames knew what that meant. "Does it frighten you? Do you have bad dreams about Jack Nicholson?"

"I don't like horror movies," Arthur grumbled. "I just think they're dumb."

" _You're_ dumb!" Eames complained. Admittedly, it was the most childish argument he'd made all night.

Still, Arthur sat and continued to watch, clearly growing progressively uncomfortable. He didn't shout, but he definitely grabbed Eames's bicep when Jack Nicholson's character hacked his way through the door and shouted the famous, "Here's Johnny!"

"Don't piss on yourself," Eames whispered.

"I'm not scared," Arthur hissed, but his voice cracked in the middle.

"Then you're out of your mind," Owen mumbled, entranced and clearly frightened.

"It takes a bigger man to admit when he's afraid you know," Eames said.

"Guess that means I'm more of a man than you, huh," Owen said, shoving a mouthful of noodles into his mouth.

Arthur refrained from snarling at him, but he still glared. Owen just grinned.

 _Well_ , Eames thought, _this is… domestic_.

The thought wasn't nearly as disturbing as it should have been. He also shouldn't have been enjoying the white-knuckled grip Arthur was giving his arm as much as he was, but he couldn't help but remember how Arthur clung to him when they'd fucked. He couldn't help it. He just couldn't. It seemed that everything Arthur did reckoned back to those two nights of drunken moans and whispered nothings, of sweat and the sound of skin against skin, of brown eyes glittering in the dim light of the hotel room and red, swollen lips, of tongue and fingers and curling toes, of soft touches and rough scratches and…

"Um… excuse me," Eames said, pulling himself free from Arthur's grip and making a beeline for the bathroom.

"No, don't leave—" Arthur cried out, clearly scared, but Eames knew he could handle himself. It was just a movie. He wasn't about to go and make things extremely awkward. He didn't want Owen to think he got off on psychopaths with axes. He also didn't want Owen (or Arthur) to think he got off on Arthur (even if he already assumed such).

He locked the door and jerked himself off, biting down on a towel to keep his sounds silenced. He was so sick of having to fuck his own hand; he wondered if Arthur would let him call over a prostitute.

Yeah, right.

Though… it wasn't as if he didn't have the ability to fuck other people since Arthur... He just… hadn't.

Now _that_ was a troubling thought. What the fuck did that mean?

No, no, it wasn't that he just _hadn't_. It was just that he'd been too busy. He'd been too busy to screw around with anyone. He'd just been too caught up with work—

Bloody hell, now he was even starting to _sound_ like Arthur.

He came all over his hand and cleaned himself up, but he couldn't wipe away the shame that always came with jacking off in someone else's home and trying to keep it a secret or the pride he lost when he was reminded that he had been his only sexual partner in several months.

Just as he flushed, there was a knock on the door.

"Just a moment," Eames said, washing his hands before opening the door. "That Chinese food didn't agree with me."

Owen pointed to the couch. "The movie's over."

"Where's Arthur?" Eames asked.

"He went to his room as soon as it ended," Owen replied with a shrug. "I don't know how to work the DVD player."

"Right… right, I've got it," Eames mumbled and went to turn off the DVD player and replace the DVD in its box. Owen sat curled up in his spot on the couch while Eames did it, watching with mild curiosity. "So, um… you're speaking to Arthur now. That's a development."

Owen blushed a little bit out of embarrassment. "Uh… yeah… I uh… I thought about what you said, and I thought that I would um… try to be… better. It's hard though… I'm not very good with people."

"Funny, your brother said the same thing," Eames mumbled, but Owen didn't hear him say it. "He's really not so bad, now, is he?"

"He's… okay… he's not really a very _fun_ guy. He's still kind of a twat."

"Yeah," Eames admitted, tossing the box on the table and digging out a cigarette from his pocket, "I'll give you that one… but I think he's making an effort too, so good for you guys. I might not have to move in and referee after all."

"It's not even so much the things he says that gets me so angry," Owen said then, staring at the floor, and Eames's attention was piqued. "I mean… sometimes, he doesn't even say anything, but I just look at him, and I get so mad that I just… panic. Then he gets mad, and I panic even more."

"Panicking isn't a reaction to anger," Eames said around his cigarette. "It's a reaction to fear."

Owen looked up at Eames, hugging his knees to his chest, and didn't say anything.

"Owen…" Eames said slowly, pulling the cigarette from his lips and exhaling smoke. "Are you… _afraid_ of Arthur?"

"No!" Owen yelped, and for a moment, Eames thought he must have been lying, but then he said, "I'm afraid of… of someone else…"

"Who are you afraid of?" Eames asked.

He thought Owen would tell him, but he didn't. Instead, he just shook his head and laid it down on top of his knees. Eames knew better than to attempt to ring the answer out of him at the moment.

"All right then," Eames shrugged and made his way down the hall to find Arthur.

Arthur was in his room, just as Owen said. What Eames hadn't expected was that Arthur would be continuing to work in his room _underneath the covers_ , like he was in some kind of blanket fort that would protect him from axe-wielding maniacs. Eames thought for a moment about impersonating Jack Nicholson and scaring the bejeezus out of him, but he refrained because that was just unfair. Instead, he took hold of one of the corners of the blankets and lifted it up to peek inside at Arthur, hunched over his laptop, inside his blanket cocoon.

"There are scary monsters out in the cupboard. Can I hide under here with you?" Eames asked, grinning playfully.

"I am _not_ hiding from monsters," Arthur complained. "The glare on the screen was bad. That's all."

"Then why didn't you just turn out the light?" Eames asked.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply only to realize that he didn't have one.

Eames chuckled, shoving Arthur in the chest until he was sprawled onto his back and pulled the covers off of him. "I didn't know it would frighten you so badly," Eames said. "Do you want me to stay in here and make sure he doesn't come after you?"

"Stop fucking around, Eames. I have work to do," Arthur grumbled. He was clearly not amused by Eames's teasing, but then he very seldom was.

"You work too hard, Arthur," Eames said then, and he was a bit alarmed by the sweetness that crept into his voice. Arthur seemed a bit vexed by it too. "Well, you _do_ ," Eames added for emphasis, as if he needed to keep the two of them on subject.

Maybe he couldn't help himself because he was sitting on Arthur's waist. Yeah, that was probably a mistake… but Arthur hadn't shoved him off yet.

"I can handle myself just fine," Arthur said.

"Then why did you let me stay?" Eames asked.

"It's Owen I can't handle on my own," Arthur admitted, and Eames saw a hint of vulnerability at Arthur's edges.

Oh, that reminded him… "You know, Owen is sort of afraid of you," Eames said. "That's why he does the things he does."

Arthur didn't seem surprised by this answer, but he didn't say why. It worried Eames a little bit.

"Could you uh…" Arthur said awkwardly. "Could you not smoke in my bed? It gets the ashes all over the sheets."

It was the nicest way Arthur had ever told him to back off, and Eames couldn't help but think maybe their relationship had made a little progress too.

Whoa, wait, _relationship_?

It hit Eames like a frying pan to the face (and he knew what that felt like—it had happened once).

All the constant thinking about, the sweetness in his voice, the fucking _longing_ …

Was he in love with Arthur?

That was ridiculous! How could that be possible? Eames hadn't been 'in love' since his school days, and that hadn't even been real love. That had been hormones at their best. So really, Eames had never been in love before, and Arthur wasn't exactly the kind of person that was easy to fall in love with. He was kind of an asshole, and he was pretty cold to most people, and he was too focused on his work. Sure, he was handsome, and he smelled nice, and when he smiled it was like the whole room lit up, but being attractive does not a relationship make… Yeah, he had his moments where he might reveal a little this or that about himself, and moments when he actually let people in were surprisingly more memorable and important because he didn't just _do_ that, and he was _so_ talented at pretty much everything he set out to do. He could actually be quite entertaining when they had the time to actually sit and talk, and he was just _precious_ when he was a little tipsy or relaxed. Underneath the icy exterior, he was actually quite the beautiful person and—

 _Fuck_.

"Oh… sorry," Eames said, crawling off of him and stabbing the cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table.

"Uh, no—no problem," Arthur stammered (he was stammering?), swallowing thickly. "Just uh… yeah… I don't like having to wash them all the time… Uh… did you need anything else?"

Eames shook his head. "Nope, nope, I'll just ah—I'll just go then. Um… don't overwork yourself. Try to get in bed on time, all right?"

Arthur snorted, "Thanks, _mom_."

Oh, dear, Eames thought, he was _screwed_.

* * *

Owen started screaming around two-thirty that morning.

Eames came into his room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and hugged him to his chest, shushing him and reminding him that it was only a nightmare, that he was safe. It didn't work quite as easily as it had the first time.

Arthur was in the doorway, and Eames noticed that he was still dressed, meaning he hadn't even gone to sleep yet, but when he tried to come into the room to see if he could help, Owen shrieked and tried to claw his way away from Arthur.

Owen was definitely afraid of him.

It took an hour and a half to get him to calm down and another half-hour before he fell asleep, cheeks still wet with tears.

Eames found Arthur in the living room again, an ashtray full of cigarettes in front of him, and his laptop open to pages upon pages of notes.

"Is he okay?" Arthur asked quietly, never looking and yet knowing Eames was there.

"He's asleep now," Eames said, "if that's what you mean."

Arthur sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. "You don't have to get up and do that every time he screams."

"Well, sure I do," Eames said, sitting down next to him and taking his cigarette away from him. "Somebody needs to. Go to bed, Arthur. It's four-thirty in the morning."

"I just… I need to—"

" _Go to bed_ , Arthur."

Arthur looked at Eames, and for a second Eames thought his lip was quivering, and Arthur said, "What if he starts screaming again?"

"If he does, I'll take care of it," Eames said, and he was brushing his cheek with his thumb before he realized it. "Get some sleep."

"I have to finish this first."

"How many jobs are you even working?" Eames asked, trying to ignore the fact that Arthur had shut his eyes and leaned into Eames's touch, unable to help himself.

"Three… Four, if you count the one you want me to do."

" _Jesus_ , Arthur," Eames whispered. "That's so fucking dangerous."

"I can handle it."

Eames was beginning to wonder if either of them believed that.

* * *

The next day, Owen and Eames went grocery shopping together.

When they returned, they found Arthur sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by tipped over paperwork, unconscious.

"Shit!" Eames shouted, slamming the bags of groceries onto the table and pulling Arthur into his arms.

"What happened?" Owen asked, sounding too afraid to come inside, still standing in the doorway.

Eames checked for bullets and blood and fortunately didn't find anything. He did notice however that Arthur was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and that he probably hadn't slept. He wasn't unconscious at all. He was just asleep.

"Mr. Eames?" Owen asked awkwardly.

"It's all right," Eames said, hoisting Arthur into his arms and carrying him over to the couch. "He's just an idiot is all."

Arthur mumbled something incoherent and opened his eyes. "M'not an idiot," he slurred.

"I told you that you were working too hard," Eames scolded. "You've got to make up for that loss of sleep sometime, and your body chose now."

"I… I don't know what happened. My head was just hurting so bad, and I went to go get some medicine or something, and I just… I just woke up right here."

"Stop being such a bloody perfectionist and _sleep_ , you bastard. Why did you even take on so much?"

"I needed… something to focus on…" he mumbled, eyelids drooping. "My head hurts…"

Eames ventured a glance at Owen only to find that he wasn't there. As if on cue, the door to his bedroom slammed shut.

Something was wrong with both of them apparently. Eames just didn't know what it was.

"Come on," Eames said, pulling Arthur's arm around his shoulder because when conscious he was sure Arthur wouldn't let him carry him. "I'm putting you to bed, and you are going to sleep until you're functioning regularly, and if I have to tie you to the bed to keep you there, I will."

"All right… fine… I get it… fuck…" Arthur grumbled, but he was too sleepy to put much of a bite into it. "I finally finished what I was trying to do anyway. I was having trouble focusing."

"I can't imagine why that is," Eames said sarcastically, but he couldn't really be mad at him when he was looking so defenseless.

It seemed that as soon as Arthur's head hit the pillow he was out like a light, but Eames still sat on the edge of the bed, combing loose strands of hair behind his ear for a long while.

It was only about an hour later when Arthur awakened looking terrified that Eames realized that perhaps Owen wasn't the only one who was suffering from nightmares.

* * *

The next morning, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Arthur was already up, showered and shaved, and he was already digging up information on the sheik while corresponding with the other extractors he'd just finished working with in order to make sure everything went smoothly. Only Arthur could manage such incredible feats on such little sleep (for a man who worked in dreams, he sure didn't get a lot of rest).

"No problems?" Eames asked, fixing himself some tea (he'd made sure to buy some while they were at the market the day before).

"Not so far. Only one of the jobs was a moderate risk anyway, so I'll just have to keep my eye on the mark and make sure they haven't caught onto anything," Arthur replied, sipping at his coffee.

Owen came shuffling in then, making a beeline for the cupboard to grab a glass for milk or orange juice.

"Morning, Owen," Arthur said, looking over his coffee cup at him.

A look washed over Owen, like he was somewhere else, and all of a sudden…

He was _screaming_.

Owen was screaming and throwing glasses at Arthur, eyes wild, and Arthur was ducking down under the table to avoid the crash of glass against the wall behind him.

"FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU! I _HATE_ YOU!" Owen shrieked, only managing to stop throwing things when Eames grabbed him by both wrists and held his arms behind his back. "JUST FUCKING DIE!"

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Eames asked in horror, struggling to hold his grip.

Owen kicked and thrashed against Eames's grasp, slamming his head into Eames's shoulder with a useless attempt to knock it out of socket. "LET ME GO! GET ME AWAY FROM HIM! _FUCK YOU_! I HATE YOU, AND I WANT YOU TO DIE! JUST DIE! JUST FUCKING _DIE_! _DAMN IT_!"

Arthur was on his feet in an instant, and before Eames could make any attempt to stop him, he smacked Owen so hard his head turned to the side.

It did shut him up at least, for what it was worth.

Arthur was shaking from adrenaline, and Owen was gasping for air like he'd just run a marathon. Eames was caught somewhere in the middle, unsure if Arthur made a wise decision but also unwilling to let go of Owen for fear of what he would do. Nobody said anything for what felt like hours, even though it couldn't have been minutes.

…and then Owen started to cry.

He crumpled to his knees and probably would have fallen to the floor completely if Eames didn't have a hold of him, and he sobbed and sobbed until he was purple in the face and choking on air, and Eames looked to Arthur for some kind of answer to why it was happening. Arthur just stared back at him, definitely looking like he was about to cry too… but Arthur never cried.

"…somebody… help me…" Owen whimpered, and Eames realized that the boy still didn't seem to know where he was. He was lost somewhere in his memories, but Eames couldn't know what was going on there. "Please, stop… fuck you…"

Eames knelt down, lifting the boy into his arms, and he clung to him with all the strength he could still muster (which admittedly wasn't much). "What are you so afraid of? What's wrong?" Eames asked him, but Owen didn't answer.

In fact, he didn't talk for the next three days.


	4. Quiet In My Town (4/6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.

4.

At one in the morning, Eames stirred from sleep to find Arthur hunched in front of the coffee maker, as if trying to decide whether to brew a pot or not.

"What are you doing?" Eames asked, though he could guess.

Arthur jumped a little. He glanced over his shoulder at Eames, arms folded around him and said, "I… I don't know… I just couldn't sleep…"

"Bad dream?" Eames teased, but the smile left his face when Arthur looked away from him, mumbling. "Arthur?"

"I don't know," Arthur said again, but clearly he did know. "I mean… I haven't used the PASIV in months, so I guess dreaming naturally again was inevitable…"

Eames crawled off of the couch, stretching his aching muscles, and again he was reminded that the couch was not the place he wanted to be sleeping. "What happened in the dream?"

Arthur moved defensively away from Eames as he approached. "Nothing… I… don't remember."

He had a feeling that wasn't true, but he didn't try to force it out of him.

It was weird how he always felt like he was walking on eggshells in Arthur's place nowadays, waiting for enough pieces of the puzzle to fill in the picture but never simply asking for any. He didn't know why, but the idea of bringing up whatever it was that was torturing them would cause all the chaos inside to come spilling out. Eames wasn't sure he could ride those waves.

"He was doing so well," Arthur said then, and it took Eames a moment to realize what he was talking about. "I mean… for months, I couldn't get him to say a word to me, and you're here for a couple of days, and he's actually talking and… _smiling_ at me… I didn't think it was fucking possible, and I thought for a minute that maybe things would be okay… but then I… I fucked it up somehow…"

It was softer and more vulnerable than Eames had ever heard Arthur. For a moment, he wasn't even sure it _was_ Arthur. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and checked his totem just to be sure.

"I don't think it was anything you've done, darling," Eames said gently, cupping Arthur's cheek. Arthur sank into the touch until he realized what he was doing and then pulled away.

"I ah… um… I don't know," Arthur said again, even though it didn't exactly make sense, digging around in the bottom cabinet under the coffee maker until he produced a bottle of whiskey. "I just… it had to have been something I did because he didn't get upset until I said anything." He dropped some ice cubes into a glass and poured the whiskey over the top of them.

"Are you sure drinking is the best way to solve the problem?" Eames asked.

"No, no, I—I just need something to help me get to sleep," Arthur mumbled and then knocked back the drink. "I've come to the conclusion that when I'm upset, the solution is always to get gloriously drunk and forget about it."

Eames snorted, grabbing a glass for himself as well. "Is that what your intention was in Germany? Were you upset that night?"

Arthur laughed, pouring Eames a glass and said, before he could stop himself, "I wasn't drunk that night."

Eames stared for a moment, and Arthur looked as though he had paled considerably. "You weren't drunk that night?"

"I was… uh… well, I wasn't sober, but I wasn't blackout drunk, no," Arthur replied, suddenly finding the sink very interesting.

"Really," Eames said over his glass, "because you certainly said that you were the next morning."

"I… I know… I'm sorry, but—"

"You lied."

"…I did…" Arthur said shamefully.

"Well, then," Eames said after swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, "that's a bit of a relief."

"A relief?" Arthur asked, clearly confused.

"Yeah, I mean, I was beginning to think that nobody would fuck me unless they were blackout drunk. That kind of idea is a real blow to the self-esteem. I feel much better now."

"Are you being sarcastic or are you actually not phased?" Arthur asked.

Eames shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I probably should be angry, but I'm really not. Drunk or sober, you told me that you didn't want to do it again the next morning and said it shouldn't have happened before… so, I guess it doesn't matter if you had alcohol as an excuse or not. Check me off on a list of many regrets, I suppose."

That hurt to say more than Eames had expected it to, squeezing his heart unpleasantly.

Arthur went stony faced, but his eyes were a bit more telling than usual. Eames thought he almost saw guilt. Almost.

"So, ah, Arthur," Eames continued, changing the subject, "what exactly happened to your parents anyways?"

Arthur hopped up onto the counter, taking long swallows at his drink. "There was a fire."

"Owen wasn't injured?"

"He was at the movies apparently," Arthur said. "My mom had the tendency to fall asleep when she was smoking, so ah… she probably set the bed on fire."

"You do that too," Eames said before he could help it.

Arthur stared at the wall, and the regret on his face was palpable as he said, barely above a whisper, "I know."

"So, Owen found the house just burned to the ground?" Eames asked.

"I don't know," Arthur said. "He never told me. All I know is that 911 was called by the neighbor across the street and it was mostly just the bedroom that was on fire, but both of them were charred beyond recognition."

"…Why do you hate them, Arthur?"

Eames was afraid he might be opening a can of worms he shouldn't, but he couldn't take it back after he'd said it.

"I have my reasons," Arthur mumbled and knocked back the rest of his glass. "Pour me another, would you?"

Eames did.

"So, what was up with your brother calling you a faggot anyway?" Eames asked.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't _know_ , Eames. I know him about as well as you do, okay? I told you that I hadn't seen him since he was four."

"Why did you leave when you were sixteen?"

"Could you please stop asking me questions? Jesus, how do you function so well after just waking up?"

"We don't all need eleven cups of coffee to stay alive during the day, darling."

Arthur was silent for a while after that, only speaking up to ask Eames to pour him another glass. After the fourth one, he was starting to slur.

"Do you want to go under on the PASIV?" Eames offered. "Getting the somnacin in your system should keep you from dreaming naturally if they bother you that bad."

Arthur frowned into his glass. "I can handle it." He went to hop off the counter then but stumbled, and Eames had to catch him.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Eames asked when Arthur didn't let go or attempt to move away.

Arthur's fingers gripped into Eames's shirt, but he didn't move other than that.

"Arthur?" Eames asked, and he looked up at him, eyes wide and young and lost and very un-Arthur-like.

Arthur rose to his full height, arms lacing around Eames's shoulders for support, and they were breathing each other's air, and Arthur was so close that Eames could see the caramel flecks in the brown of his eyes.

"I'm not afraid of you," Arthur slurred.

"I never accused you of such a thing," Eames replied, hushed, like the words were forbidden.

"I should be afraid of you," Arthur whispered, matching the soft tone of Eames's voice.

"Why?" Eames asked, and he could feel himself leaning closer, could feel the tips of his lips right _there_ , and…

Owen started shouting.

"No… no, no, no…" Arthur mumbled, pressing his hands over his ears and backing away from Eames. "No, just shut up, shut _up_! Why do you always do this? Why? Please… just stop…"

Eames didn't know whether to go to Owen or to tend to Arthur who was crouching in the corner and looking about ready to start shouting too. Surely most of Arthur's problem was the alcohol, but still…

He looked like he was about to fall apart.

…but Owen was already falling apart.

"I'll be right back," Eames told Arthur and ran to Owen's room to find he'd actually fallen out of the bed and was tangled in his sheets, screaming and crying. "Hey, hey," he said, going to lift the boy off the floor.

"STOP IT!" Owen shouted, swinging at him, but thankfully Eames could handle his alcohol and managed to dodge it. "STOP—Don't…" Slowly, realization came over him, and with the realization came a look of shame. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he said, wiping at his tears with his fingers.

There was a crashing from the hallway, and when Eames ran to see what it was, he discovered Arthur had tripped over a cord from a lamp in his drunken stumbling to find out what was happening.

Eames pressed his hand to his forehead with a sigh and one at a time got both brothers by an arm and dragged them into Arthur's room.

They all slept in Arthur's bed, each brother with an arm around him for protection but never touching each other.

* * *

When Eames woke up, Owen was gone from his side, but Arthur was still there, head pressed against his chest, mumbling incoherently in his sleep.

Eames ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, a little greasy from lack of washing, and Arthur shifted slightly from the touch and then shot awake, looking frantically for the source before settling on Eames.

"We didn't—" Arthur said.

"No, we didn't," Eames replied with a snort. "You got drunk and started acting weird, and the sprog started screaming, and it was easier to keep watch over both of you by putting you both here. Your bed is unbelievably comfortable by the way."

"I'm sorry…" Arthur said awkwardly. "Where's Owen?"

"I don't know. I just woke up myself."

Arthur crawled out of the bed and Eames followed suit, even though he very much would have preferred to just go back to sleep. He felt exhausted from playing babysitter.

They found Owen in the living room, in the corner, playing with a lighter.

"Doing all right there, sprog?" Eames asked casually.

Owen looked up at him but didn't say anything. He made eye contact with Arthur and the two of them just stared at one another for a few moments.

"I can uh… I can make some pancakes…" Arthur offered awkwardly.

"…okay…" Owen said.

Well, at least they were back on speaking terms, Eames thought.

"…Do you… uh… do you want to help me out?" Arthur asked.

Owen got up off the floor, tossing the lighter onto the coffee table. "Okay…"

Eames watched in wonder as they both set up the kitchen for breakfast, how they both ignored the open bottle of whiskey still sitting on the counter and the lamp still overturned in the hallway and the fact that they hadn't spoken to each other in days and… well, maybe that was how brothers were supposed to be.

"Do you want eggs?" Owen asked, opening the refrigerator.

"Only if they're fried," Arthur replied. "I hate scrambled eggs."

"All I can make is scrambled," Owen said.

"Well, uh—I'll make the eggs. You can fry the bacon."

"Okay."

 _Did I do something right last night by forcing them to be together?_ Eames thought but didn't verbalize.

"Eames," Arthur said, turning around to give him the eye. "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to help?"

"Ah, what do you need me to do, darling?"

"Darling?" Owen asked, smirking a little.

"It's a British thing," Arthur supplied again.

"He's never called _me_ 'darling'," Owen said with a shrug.

"That's because _you_ are 'sprog'," Eames replied, ruffling his hair. "I'll make blueberry pancakes. I'm quite good at it actually."

Arthur handed Eames a spatula. "Prove it."

Eames huffed. "I'm no amateur, love."

The three of them prepared breakfast, and Eames showed them how to fantastically flip pancakes just using the frying pan. He was so glad that he'd taught himself how to do it when he saw both boys smile while watching (Owen's wide and open while Arthur's was more subtle). Arthur's eggs were runny and yet somehow still good, and Owen made his bacon perfectly (after burning two pieces by accident—Arthur helped him after that).

As they all sat down to eat, Eames was reminded again of how domestic he'd felt with them days before when things had been good. Apparently things were back to being good, but how long would it be before it went bad again?

"So…" Arthur said as he picked up the dishes and Eames put the leftovers into the fridge. "What are you guys planning on doing today?"

"I don't know," Eames shrugged. "Why?"

"I don't know. I was just thinking maybe we could get the fuck out of this apartment for a few minutes. It's summer. Do you want to go to the beach?"

"I've never been to the beach," Owen said.

"Splendid! Let's go to the beach then," Eames said, grinning.

"I don't have a swimsuit," Owen said.

"I didn't pack one either, so we'll just buy some on the way," Eames said.

"Yeah, but first you can help me wash the dishes," Arthur added as he filled the sink with sudsy water, "and we need to get sunscreen too. I'm not going to deal with a couple of moaning lobsters."

"I'll have you know I tan like a bronze god," Eames said, bumping his hip against Arthur's so he'd move to allow him to help. Arthur just swallowed and acted like he was being ridiculous, though there was definitely a tint of pink on his cheeks.

* * *

Eames of course picked out the loudest pair of swim trunks he could find (a magenta and orange pair covered in tropical flowers), but when Arthur opened his mouth to complain he reminded him that he could have worn a speedo and that shut him up immediately (though Eames wasn't sure if it was because he hated or liked the idea). Owen awkwardly picked out a cheap pair of navy blue ones with a white tie at the waist and white stripes on each side. Arthur had a black pair that he looked entirely too good in.

The beach was packed full of people, as expected in the summer, and Owen stared in wonder from the back of the taxi as they got closer. Arthur had packed towels and bottles of sunscreen and even a big umbrella, and Eames had packed a cooler with wine (and sodas for the boy). It took them twenty minutes before they could even find a spot, but Eames declared it to be perfect as soon as they were there.

Arthur shucked off his t-shirt and started smearing his chest and shoulders with sunscreen, and Owen stared at the ocean in awe.

"It's bigger than I ever could have imagined," he said quietly.

"It's almost like you could just sail on forever, huh," Eames said, planting a bottle of sunscreen in his hand.

"It's like you could just sail right off into the sky," Owen replied dreamily. Eames had never seen him so at peace around other people.

Owen chose not to take off his shirt, and all it took was one slightly panicked look to keep Arthur and Eames from pressing why. Eames had shrugged and told him that he'd get black dye all over his skin from the cheap shirt but to go have fun anyway, and the boy did, sheepishly making his way towards the sea, dodging excited children and a group of college kids playing Frisbee until he was ankle deep in water and then waist deep.

Eames kept his eye on the boy as much as possible, choosing to stay out of the water for the moment and instead building a sand castle just because he could.

"I never took you for a sculptor, Eames," Arthur said from his spot on his towel. The muscles in his back were particularly tempting with the fact that he'd already broken into a sweat, making his shoulders glimmer enticingly, and there was something about the fact that he was still wearing his aviator sunglasses that made Eames tingle all over.

"Everything is creation, love," Eames said, using a plastic shovel he had not stolen but secretly borrowed from the toddler a few spots over to swirl the sand in a winding path. "I could do a statue of you if you like."

"Not interested."

"A guy like you not wanting people to worship your beauty? I'm surprised," Eames teased.

"I think you're mistaking me for you, Eames, and whatever 'beauty' you think I have is definitely all in your head."

"You don't think you're attractive?" Eames asked, pressing a shell into the side of one of his towers.

"No, I don't."

"Now… I know you _own_ a mirror. Have you just failed to use it?"

"I don't like looking in the mirror," Arthur replied, rolling onto his back. It was almost like he was mocking Eames by saying something like that and then showing off that delicious chest.

"Why?" Eames asked, baffled. "You're like a fucking model! You could be in GQ magazines _today_. All they would need to do is see you in one of those tailored pinstriped suits you like so much and—"

" _Shut up_. Eames."

Apparently it was a touchy subject.

"You don't have some sort of eating disorder, do you?" Eames asked.

" _Eames_."

Eames abandoned his sand castle (well really it was more of a fortress—fortresses were more exciting anyway), and scooted over toward Arthur. "What is it that you don't like about yourself?" he asked, tracing a bead of sweat on Arthur's brow with a fingertip.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm just curious. You're making me feel ugly over here."

Arthur sighed as if he was dealing with a stubborn child, and even though Eames couldn't see his eyes from behind the shades, he was sure he was rolling them. "I'm just not as narcissistic as you apparently think I am, okay? Everyone's a little disgusted with themselves."

"You certainly package yourself nicely for someone who hates the way they look," Eames said, and he realized that he was stroking Arthur's cheekbone with his thumb and the point man was doing absolutely nothing to stop him, like he didn't notice. He had to have noticed…

Arthur licked his lips, and Eames knew he was staring at him even through the black lenses. "I just…" he said and paused because his mouth seemed to have gone dry, "It's complicated."

Eames broke the eye contact before he did something he'd regret and looked out towards the ocean. After a little searching, he spotted Owen standing in the froth of the sea looking uncomfortable as a sun-bleached blonde and tanned young man around his age talked excitedly at him, waving around the hand that wasn't tucking a surfboard under his arm. Owen glanced back at the two of them then and made eye contact with Eames and started making his way over, the tanned boy trailing behind him. Eames made sure to distance himself from Arthur just a little, even if he did feel saddened when he was no longer touching his skin.

"Mr. Eames," he said, circling around the sand fortress to stand in front of him. "This guy is um… his name's Brandon, and he said he wanted to teach me how to surf, but I need some money so I can rent a surf board. Is that okay?"

"Ah…" Eames started.

"My wallet's in the cooler," Arthur said lazily, waving his hand in the general direction he assumed the cooler was.

"Oh… thanks…" Owen said awkwardly and dug inside until he found the wallet, digging out just enough. "Um… okay then."

"Who are they?" Brandon asked as they started on their way.

"That's my brother and his 'friend' from work," Owen said, using air quotes.

"Oy! Don't you use bloody air quotes when talking about me or I'll start using air quotes when I call you _my_ friend!" Eames shouted after them, shaking his fist, and he saw both boys start to laugh.

"Oh just fucking relax, jeez," Arthur mumbled. "If you're such a tanning god, why don't you just tan for a while?"

Eames pouted a little. "I'm surprised you're not offended that he thinks we're fucking."

"He can think whatever he wants to think. That doesn't make it true," Arthur said, lifting his sunglasses up. " _Fuck_ , I forgot how _hot_ it was out here."

"Go for a refreshing swim?" Eames suggested.

"I'm not a strong swimmer."

"So you're just going to lie there and sweat?"

"Why not?"

"If you die of heat stroke, I'm not saving you."

"You're lying," Arthur snorted.

He was right. Eames didn't have to take that sitting down though. He took Arthur by the wrists and pulled him to his feet, and Arthur was immediately trying to struggle against his grip, heels of his feet digging in the sand as Eames pulled him along while laughing hysterically. Arthur complained and shouted and wriggled but Eames had a stronger grip and before long they were in the water.

"Eames, I don't—" Arthur stammered, and Eames realized that by the time they were neck deep in the water that Arthur was terrified. "I don't know how to swim—"

Well, that explained why he was afraid.

"It's all right, Arthur," Eames chuckled, wiping wet hairs out of his eyes. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let you drown. I've got you, all right?"

"I wouldn't be out here if it weren't for you!" Arthur nagged.

Eames dunked him.

Arthur came back up flailing in horror until he caught onto Eames and hung on for dear life. "You bastard! I hate you, you _bastard_!" he shouted, voice reaching a whole new octave, and really if he hated Eames so much would he have wrapped his legs around his waist like that?

"Arthur, you can fucking _stand_ here. It's not even that scary," Eames informed him. "You're not going to die as long as I'm here."

…and the air shifted.

That sounded like a much more serious promise than he'd intended it to be. He wasn't sure whether it disturbed him that it was so serious or that he meant every word.

"See?" Eames said after he felt Arthur relax his grip slightly. "It's fine. You're fine… Jesus, Arthur, I would have thought you'd need to know how to swim when you were in the military."

"I can swim if I have to," Arthur grumbled. "I'm not a strong swimmer."

He removed his legs from Eames's waist and floated there with his arms around his neck for a long moment.

…and then Eames dove.

When he came back up, Arthur was sputtering and choking, clinging to Eames even though he was the one who'd taken them both under, and maybe Eames did it because he liked having Arthur wrapped around him like a spider monkey.

"You're a douche," Arthur said when he recovered and spit salt water in his face.

Eames resisted the urge to tell him that he loved him, even though it would have been the perfect moment.

* * *

They ended up staying at the beach all day, though Arthur avoided the water like the plague as soon as Eames pulled them out (and he took his sweet time with that because it was just hilarious). Owen actually picked up on surfing rather quickly and Eames didn't see him alone for most of the day. He seemed to have gotten in with a group of tanned beach bums and appeared to actually be having a good time. It was nice to see.

Somehow Eames convinced Arthur to help him build another sand fortress, and it turned out Arthur could be quite dramatic with his sand architecture. They didn't get to finish it though because the little girl came and got her shovel back (and Arthur scolded him for taking it in the first place).

By the time the sun had gone down, the two of them were lounging on their own towels, passing the bottle of wine back and forth since they hadn't bothered to bring glasses. Owen's friends had gone home (in fact, they were mostly alone, with only a few scattered couples still lingering further down the beach), so he stood in the sea foam, watching the surf like he could stare at it forever and never get bored.

"I'm glad that we did this," Eames said, handing the bottle to Arthur.

"I'm glad you didn't drown me," Arthur replied, taking a long chug off of the bottle before handing it back. "My hair will be white by tomorrow because of you."

"I'd never let you drown."

"…I know…" Arthur said, and he was cracking a drunken smile. He seemed to have gotten over it for the moment, though Eames knew he'd probably bring it up again in the future.

"Are you drunk yet?" Eames asked.

"I'm _relaxed_ ," Arthur said slowly, and when he lifted his arms to express such thoughts with movement, he tipped to the side and fell, head falling to Eames's shoulder.

"So, yes then," Eames said, snaking an arm around him and rubbing his shoulder.

"How're we gonna get home?" Arthur lamented, waving the bottle around uselessly. "I can't drive, 'n you can't drive, 'n I don't think Owen has his license. We're gonna have to leave the car, Eames!"

"Darling, we took a taxi here."

"Oh. Well, then, okay then."

Owen looked over his shoulder at them and raised his eyebrows, and Eames took another long swallow out of the bottle as if to convey his point that Arthur was drunk. Owen seemed to understand and shouted to him, "Hey, Eames!"

"What is it, sprog?" Eames called back.

"If we got a boat and sailed off, do you really think we'd make it to the stars?" he asked, pointing at where the water met the sky. "I know it seems impossible but—"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Eames laughed. "Anything is possible!"

…and Eames couldn't help but believe himself. He couldn't help but think that they could leave the earth behind them and sail off into space, away from all of the sadness and fear held deep inside the brothers.

…but there was no sailing into the sky that night.

Eames ended up cradling Owen in his arms most of the night when Owen was awakened by horrible nightmares again, and Eames swore he heard Owen whimper, "Please… don't touch me."

"No one's going to hurt you," Eames whispered uselessly.

It was all he could think of to say.


	5. Quiet In My Town (5/6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.

5.

When Eames got back from the Laundromat the next evening, it was to the sound of shouting.

"Why don't you just shut the fuck _up_ once in a while? I don't have to do one goddamned thing to you and you're on my case!" Arthur yelled, eyes burning with hatred at Owen who had apparently caused some rather heinous destruction to some dishes being as they were in pieces on the floor.

"I can't help it!" Owen replied, equally biting, sliding a glass out of the cupboard and letting it crash to the floor as if to mock him. "I didn't _ask_ to come here, you jackass! Don't blame me because you wanted to suddenly look like a _good_ brother!"

Another glass crashed to the floor.

"You think I took you in because I _wanted_ to? I did it because I had to, and you're fucking lucky that you didn't get put into the system because of me! I was doing you a goddamned _favor_ , so the least you could do was not keep me up at night with the fucking _screaming_! Do you know how many complaints I've gotten from the neighbors because of that shit? I can't stand it!"

"I told you that it's not my fault!" Owen bellowed, taking a defiant step forward because there was no way he could know just how dangerous Arthur could be. "At least Eames tries to help me! All you do is stand there and stare at me accusingly—I told you that I can't help it! You know I can't fucking help it, you fucking tool!"

"How do I know you can't help it? How do I know this isn't just some big stupid ploy for attention, huh? And I _did_ try to help you, and you fucking punched me in the face! Why should I bother trying to help you if you won't _let_ me?"

"I don't _want_ your help!"

"Then don't get pissed off when I don't _offer_ it!"

"I don't get pissed off when you don't try to help me! I'm not mad about that at all! I'm mad that you even brought me to this godforsaken place, you faggot!"

" _Don't_ call me that! What the fuck—"

"Well you are! I've seen the way that you and Eames act all the time! You're a faggot! Ugh—you're _disgusting_ , Arthur! How could you ever _want_ someone to stick anything up there? Sick, _sick_! I can't believe you!"

"You don't know anything about my sex life so don't start assuming that you do!" Arthur growled, shoving the boy.

"You like to take it though, don't you! You like it when people shove you down and make you scream and shove things into you, don't you!"

"Shut up right now," Arthur said, suddenly dangerously quiet.

It was only fuel to Owen's fire. "I knew it! You sick bastard, you _like_ it! Jesus Christ, how messed up is that? Don't you think it's messed up? Oh, man, if Dad could see you now—"

Arthur smacked him so hard that he stumbled.

Owen touched the burning red mark on his face in shock… and then came screaming at Arthur, throwing punches like a wild animal.

Eames realized that he should have stepped in long ago.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" he barked, dropping his laundry and running to shove himself between them. "That's enough, that _enough_! What the fuck is the matter with you two?"

"I _hate_ it here! I wish I'd died in the fucking fire!" Owen shrieked and stormed off to his room. Eames could hear breaking noises from inside.

Arthur stood there, still pinned against the refrigerator by Eames's arm, chest heaving and cheeks ruddy with anger. Eames waited until he was sure Arthur wasn't going to attack the closest thing (i.e. _him_ ) and then released him.

"What the fuck, Eames?" Arthur shouted, but his voice was strained, tired out from yelling.

"That sounds like something I should be saying," Eames replied calmly, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"He can't just _do_ whatever he wants, and you just let him get away with talking to me that way! How is that fucking _fair_?"

"I didn't let him _get away_ with anything. I just stopped the both of you from acting like beasts."

" _Beasts_?" Arthur snorted, laughing bitterly. "Fuck you. Fuck _you_!" In one swoop of his arms, he knocked all of the dishes on the counter to the floor, porcelain and glass shattering while plastic and Tupperware tumbled and banged about. "You don't know what fucking _beasts_ are!"

Eames came to the conclusion that he probably should have held onto Arthur a little bit longer. He was angry. He was angrier than Eames had ever seen him, and he'd seen Arthur kill people before.

"Calm down," Eames tried, even though, if he remembered correctly, it was probably the worst thing he possibly could say in the situation.

"I do _not_ have to _fucking calm down_! This is _my_ apartment, and I can do _whatever the fuck I want_! I will not just fucking _calm down_! That fucking brat does not run this place and neither do you!" He ended every sentence by flipping the table and throwing chairs.

Eames took a deep breath and let it out. He needed to remain calm or everything that was happening could turn ugly (well, _uglier_ ). He crossed the room to where Arthur was standing and trembling, and placed his hands on his shoulders as gently as he could muster. "Arthur," he said steadily.

Arthur used the last of his anger's strength to kick the basket of laundry, spilling Eames's clothes all over the carpet.

"Arthur," Eames said again, rubbing circles on his back with his thumbs.

"Fuck… _fuck_ …" Arthur whimpered, and then he broke.

Arthur started to sob.

Arthur started to sob, and Eames had no idea what to do because Arthur never, _never_ cried… and yet, here he was, blubbering like a baby, and all Eames could do was take him into his arms and shush him and rock him back and forth and wonder if somehow he was dreaming. He couldn't exactly check his totem at the moment.

"It's not _fair_ , Eames," Arthur bawled into his shoulder. "I do everything I _fucking can_ , and I know I'm not perfect, but it's never good enough…"

"Shh…" Eames said slowly, petting the back of his head. "It's all right. Get it out."

"I can't believe you came here, and you stayed here, and you _put up_ with all of this _shit_ … I can't even—you don't have to be here… I _have_ to fucking be here, even if I want to run screaming into fucking traffic sometimes…"

"I knew you needed somebody," Eames said.

"How? How did you know that?"

Eames hesitated before admitting, "I just did."

The answer satisfied Arthur for the moment, though when he was in a better state of mind, Eames was sure he'd tell him that it was definitely too vague to be a real answer.

Eames lifted Arthur into his arms, and the point man actually let him do it (which was a sign as to how far gone he currently was). He carried him back to his room and laid him on the bed, hoping that some sort of comfort would help him get back to his wits. "Everything's going to be all right," he told Arthur, brushing away his tears with the back of his hand. "You both just need some time to cool down, and then we're going to talk about all of this, all right?"

Arthur sniffed, blinking as more tears freed themselves. "It's all my fault, Eames… I just asked him if he wanted some dinner, and I shouldn't have done that… I shouldn't have—it wasn't…"

"It's okay. You don't have to talk about it right now," Eames whispered, brushing loose strands of hair off of his forehead and, as an afterthought, pressing a kiss there the way his mother had once done every night. "Just relax for a few minutes and get your bearings, okay?"

"—but—but Eames—"

Eames shook his head and started to get up to go check on Owen, to see what he'd broken, but Arthur grabbed him by the wrist and wouldn't let go. "Arthur?"

"Please don't… don't go right now…"

"What do you need, darling?" Eames asked, sitting back on the side of the bed and lovingly stroking the side of his face.

Arthur sniffed and sniffled looking like he was trying to fight back more tears, but when Eames leaned in close to offer more words of comfort, Arthur kissed him.

Eames was momentarily stunned by the sudden showing of affection, but after it subsided, he kissed him back, gentle and languid, and Arthur threw one hand to the back of his neck and pressed the other against his shoulder. After a moment he was licking his way into Eames's mouth, and Eames could do nothing but oblige him as he found himself sinking on top of Arthur, sinking into his arms and his mouth and the idea that this time they were both sober and—

"Wait—wait," Eames said, breaking away, and both of them were gasping for air. "Why are you doing this?"

For a second Arthur looked like was going to answer with something substantial but then changed his mind and said, looking away, "I don't know."

"That's not true. Tell me why," Eames commanded as gently as he could. He was sure one wrong move would ruin any progress he'd made in calming the man down.

"…I… I don't know…" Arthur mumbled, setting his jaw as more tears sprang to the corners of his eyes, waiting to fall. It was as if he'd been holding them back so long that when he set them free he could no longer control them. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't—"

Eames sighed through his nose, laying down by his side and pulling him into his arms. "Don't worry about it," he said.

He knew at least part of him would live to regret stopping himself, but it was better than all of him regretting that he didn't when Arthur clearly wasn't in the right state of mind to make decisions.

He meant to wait until Arthur fell asleep and go check on Owen, but his adrenaline had skyrocketed when he'd come upon the fight and tanked as soon as it was over. He fell asleep.

* * *

Arthur was sleeping when Eames woke up, and a quick glance at the clock revealed that it was two in the morning…

…and it was too quiet.

He slowly lifted Arthur's arm off of his chest and set it down by his side before slipping out of the bed. He tried to stay quiet as he left Arthur's room, but it didn't look like he would be waking up anytime soon even if he went banging around and shouting.

Owen's bedroom door was open a crack just wide enough for the boy to get in and out of, and Eames realized after shoving it that it wasn't going to open any more than that. The bookshelf had been tipped over and was blocking the door from going any further.

It didn't matter. Owen wasn't in there anyway.

"Sprog?" Eames called out, making his way down the hall, checking the bathroom and the hall closet. He wasn't there, and he wasn't in the still destroyed kitchen or living room either. "Owen," Eames said, and he could feel his nerves riling up.

He wasn't in the apartment.

He'd left.

"Fuck," Eames growled.

He checked on Arthur one more time (he hadn't moved), left him a note saying he'd be back, and went searching.

The problem was that Eames still wasn't all that familiar with the L.A. streets, and Owen could have left hours ago. He could have been long gone on a bus or in a taxi, anywhere. He didn't even know why he was bothering, but he felt like he absolutely _had_ to find him.

That was stupid.

Of course he knew why he was looking.

He was looking because he loved Arthur, and he was looking because he loved that kid too. Owen was a bright kid with a winning smile and natural talents, and when he let somebody in, it was a special moment. He and Arthur clearly had trust issues, and yet they'd both let Eames into their lives. How could he not have been appreciative towards that? How could he not have loved the both of them for doing that? Sure, it was sappy, but he couldn't help himself…

…because Eames hadn't necessarily been the most trusting guy in his life either. In his time on Earth, he'd been the kind of guy who'd use people to his advantage and then cut his ties (which was why he didn't have many real friends). He'd been taught early in life that trust wasn't something a person just squandered on anyone, and Eames had very high tastes in whom trust was worth squandering on. He worked in a life of crime after all; putting faith in the wrong person could result in a funeral. It was dangerous, so he protected himself. After his father had died, and then his mother, he had no ties to his home, and he found it was safer not to have ties to anyone or anything.

It was safe, but it was also lonely. That first night in Amsterdam, he may have admitted to Arthur in a drunken state that he was lonesome. He only vaguely remembered that night now, but…

Yes, he had said he was lonely. He'd already been feeling down because it had been the anniversary of his mother's death during the job, and alcohol always seemed to magnify his emotions even if it minimized the pain. He hadn't intended to start telling Arthur how pathetic and alone he felt sometimes, but it had been out before he could help himself, and Arthur had chuckled at him and teased him in a gentle way, and then he had laid his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it… The next thing he knew was that they were sprawled out in a bed in his hotel room, and Arthur was kissing away his loneliness and his sadness.

His mother probably would have disapproved of that kind of behavior, but he couldn't help but think that she would have liked Arthur quite a lot had she been able to get to know him.

He might have said that in a post-coital haze, and Arthur may have laughed at him and smacked his chest, and Eames might have proclaimed that he was serious. Eames might have told Arthur that his mother would have likely liked Arthur even better than he himself.

Arthur might have said that that was impossible.

Eames had fallen in love that night, but he didn't know it at the time. He was still dazed that next morning, lounging and smiling in the bed while Arthur got dressed in a hurry so that he could catch his flight. He hadn't thought anything of the warm feeling of his heart at the time, hadn't even noticed that he didn't feel alone anymore.

He may have been somewhat more aware of it at least when it happened in Germany. Arthur hadn't been lamenting about his loneliness or any kind of nonsense like Eames had. In fact, Arthur hadn't said much of anything that night, eerily melancholy but never admitting to why. The job had been a rousing success, and Eames had asked him why he was sad, and Arthur had just told him it was nothing, and he'd smiled at him, and that was all Eames needed before he'd grabbed him by the neck and kissed him, and Arthur had made no attempt to stop him. Sloppy kisses had led to snogging in the elevator, and the snogging in the elevator had led to drunken sex in Arthur's hotel room.

Eames remembered that night quiet clearly actually, since he'd only had two glasses of wine. He had forgotten until that moment that he'd been the one to initiate it though. He felt a little bad, remembering that Arthur had been drowning his sorrows in alcohol and had been drunk, remembering that perhaps his consent had been dubious in the first place… but Arthur had apparently remembered the night better than he'd claimed the next morning, if what he'd said in the kitchen had been any kind of sign.

Thinking about that made his heart ache unpleasantly again.

…and then he remembered how Arthur had whispered, _"I'm not afraid of you."_

Eames hadn't given him any reason to be afraid. If anyone out of the two of them should have been feared, Eames would have always put his money on Arthur.

_"I should be afraid of you."_

Why? Eames wanted to know why Arthur thought that—or even if he really did, actually. He'd been pretty drunk, and maybe he had been spouting nonsense, but…

No… there was no way. Eames had felt something in those words. He wasn't sure what it was that he'd felt, but he knew there was something cryptic in that sentence. He'd meant to ask Arthur about it but had momentarily forgotten about it when Owen had started to scream. What would have happened if Owen hadn't started to scream?

Eames realized that he'd gone and distracted himself. He needed to concentrate on finding Owen.

A flutter of panic settled in his chest when a disturbing thought crossed his mind.

 _I sure do hope that he's still alive_.

No, he couldn't think like that. Owen wouldn't go and kill himself, would he? He had some mental issues, sure, but was he really miserable enough to take that final fatal step? He didn't appear to be self-harming as far as Eames was concerned, but the fear still sat there in his gut.

No, Owen didn't want to kill himself.

He just wanted to get away.

Eames knew where he'd gone.

* * *

Owen was sitting in the sand, gazing out at the ocean, a twig in his hand that he twisted back and forth. He was wearing the same baggy, holey clothes Eames had met him in and appeared to be drenched in water and shivering.

There was so much relief that he was alive that Eames couldn't even be angry. He just proclaimed to the sky, "Oh, thank God!" and crossed himself, even if he hadn't been religious since he was forced to in childhood.

Owen jumped at the sound of his voice, dropping his twig, and stared at Eames, and in the moonlight he was as white as a ghost. "How… how d-did you—" he stammered, voice rough and thick like he'd been shouting or crying for hours.

"You're not as creative as you think you are," Eames said, taking a seat next to him in the sand.

There was a long moment of silence where they just listened to the wind and watched the black waves crash one upon another at the shoreline. Owen sat with his knees to his chest and his chin on top of them, glaring at the world.

Finally, Eames got tired of the silent treatment and said, "Owen… what are you even doing out here?"

Owen's eyes fell to the ground, and he mumbled, "I was going to build a boat and sail away. It seemed like a good idea when I first woke up, but by the time I got here I realized how stupid it was… so I thought I'd just let the water carry me away, but I… I got tired trying to swim, and I almost drowned, and I just…"

Eames ran his hand over Owen's wet curls, sending little droplets of water flying this way and that. "You little shit," he said with a small smile.

"It was stupid too… I guess I'm just dumb… but I was just so… angry and scared and sad. I mean… I didn't even take off my shoes. I should have at least taken off my clothes… but I kept thinking that someone would see me. I don't—I don't want that—I can't let anyone—"

"No one's out on the beach at this time of night," Eames said with a shrug, but he realized it wasn't embarrassment fueling his dislike of being naked.

He was always wearing a shirt, and he only showered when he was told to, and he panicked when someone attempted to tell him to remove any garments of his clothing. Clearly, he was afraid of being seen, and Eames had a feeling it wasn't just modesty.

It made him feel a little ill, but he refrained from letting it show.

Owen buried his face in his knees and Eames rubbed his back. "I was worried sick about you, you know," he offered when Owen didn't say anything.

"Why would you worry about me?" Owen asked, voice muffled and cracking. "You barely know me."

"I know you plenty," Eames scoffed. "I've been living with you, remember? Also, I can know people just by being with them for a few hours. In the eyes of normal people, I've probably known you for years. It's a special talent of mine."

"Bullshit."

Eames shrugged. "Maybe, but I still like you quite a lot, and I care about you. Of course I was worried."

"Nobody cares about me."

"Actually, I'm being honest here. I do care about you. Would I have gone to help you all those nights if I didn't?"

"You do it because you care about my brother, not about me."

"I do care about your brother," Eames agreed, "but I care about you too, sprog. I never had any siblings when I was a lad, so I really like spending time with you. Arthur can be quite boring at times. He's always talking about work. You and I can watch horror movies together and eat Chinese food and complain about Arthur, and I can't do that with just anyone."

Owen looked up at him then, eyes wide and bright and wet. "Do you mean that?"

"I may lie a lot, but I'm not lying right now," Eames replied, and he squeezed his shoulder the same way Arthur had squeezed his in Amsterdam. "I promise you. We're friends, and I like you," he said.

Owen's face screwed up, and he buried it back into his knees, sobbing openly, and Eames put his arm around him, rubbing his shoulder sympathetically. "Nobody should like me," Owen whimpered. "I'm so mean to everyone. I didn't even have friends back in Minnesota. Nobody liked me… and I try to be better, I do, but I just can't help but get so angry and defensive, and I'm such a jackass… No wonder Arthur didn't want me… I was so mean to him, and I didn't mean those things I said, but still…"

"He does want you," Eames said, pulling the boy closer.

"No, he doesn't—"

"Then why did he burst into tears after he fought with you? He immediately started blaming himself for everything. He's always saying that he must have done something to set you off."

Owen stared at Eames in shock, wiping at his tears only for them to be replaced with fresh ones. "But… but he doesn't! I just—when I look at him, I sometimes— I just panic… and I say things I really shouldn't…"

"Why?" Eames asked gently.

He sniffed and swallowed the tears that rolled down the back of his throat and said, "Sometimes I just get so _mad_ that he left me behind, and sometimes it's just because he… because he looks like Dad. They have the same eyes… and sometimes he just does stuff, says stuff, and he sounds just like him, and I… just lose it…"

"He's not him."

"I know… I know!" Owen sobbed, throwing his arms around Eames's neck, and it was the second time someone had cried into that shoulder that night. "I'm such a horrible person, and he should have just let me get lost in the system… I ruined his life! All I do is ruin everything!"

"That's not true. None of that is true. You're not horrible, and you haven't ruined his life. I know it's a big adjustment, but believe it or not, Arthur can handle it… and so can you."

"It shouldn't be so hard… I shouldn't make it so hard…"

"Nothing worth fighting for is easy," Eames said. It was something his father had told him as a boy, and it made a knot form in his throat at the memory. He swallowed it down. "Arthur will fight for you because you are worth it. You're his _brother_ , sprog. He loves you."

"No he doesn't… he deals with me, but... how can he even know how to love? I don't even know what that fucking _means_ …"

…and Eames found himself saying something he hadn't expected to say.

"He's not incapable of love. He's just afraid of it."

Was that true?

Maybe that was why Arthur had rejected… maybe that was…

"Well, come on," Eames said, hoisting the boy to his feet. "Let's get you something dry to wear. We wouldn't want you getting a cold now, would we? Arthur will probably be hounding me as soon as we get back."

Owen trailed along behind Eames, one hand in his, like the little lost child that he was. Eames squeezed that hand extra tight to confirm that he would not let go.

He wasn't going to let Owen drown either.


	6. Quiet In My Town (6/6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.

6.

It was nearly dawn when Eames and Owen returned to the apartment. Eames had been unable to find a place open that he could buy Owen some clothes, so the boy was still damp and shivering a little when they got inside.

Arthur was awake.

Arthur was awake and looked like he hadn't slept at all. In fact, it appeared that he'd started to clean obsessively as if it could fix all the things that were muddled up on the inside, and Eames could bet that Arthur had had another nightmare.

"Honey, I'm home," Eames said, shutting the door behind him.

Arthur looked up from where he was crouched on the floor, and Eames saw that he had hands full of glass. He'd been picking up each broken piece of glass one by one.

"You're back… you came back…" Arthur said dazedly.

"Don't you have a bloody broom?" Eames asked, yanking Arthur up by the elbow and making him dump the handfuls of glass into the trash bin.

"Um… well…" Arthur stammered, still staring at Eames as if he could vanish into thin air at any moment.

"I broke it…" Owen said, "earlier… when we were fighting… I snapped it over my knee and threw it out the window."

Eames shook his head, rolling his eyes and took Owen's elbow as well, dragging them to the couch and forcing them to sit down. "You can clean later. Right now, both of you are going to sit here and _talk_. You're going to tell me what the fuck is going on, and I'm going to try to help you fix it."

Both of them started to object, but Eames silenced them by lifting his hands. He sat down on the coffee table rubbed his hands together and waited.

Nobody spoke, just stared awkwardly at each other.

"All right, I'll start," Eames said then. "Arthur, Owen thinks that you hate him. Do you?"

Arthur scoffed, turning to look at Owen, "Of course not! I don't—I mean, I know I can be kind of… kind of an asshole sometimes, but I don't hate you anymore than you hate me."

"You're wrong… because there is a part of me that does hate you."

Well, this was quickly going differently than Eames planned.

"Wh—but—" Arthur stammered, at a loss, and Owen sprung to life with anger.

"You… _left_ me!" he shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing accusingly at him. "You left me there, and you never bothered to even think about me when you did! You just up and left!"

"I didn't have a choice!" Arthur exclaimed, standing also. "A sixteen-year-old traveling alone with a four-year-old? You really think we could have gotten anywhere if we'd gone together? I had to get out of there, and so I did—"

"YOU _LEFT_ ME!" Owen shrieked, and his anger was quickly taking on a hint of hysteria. "You ran away like a _fucking coward_ and left me there alone to bear the burden, and you don't expect me to be _resentful_?"

"I did what I had to—"

"He _molested_ and _raped_ me," Owen said darkly, and the whole room seemed to go cold. "He _violated_ me every night. _Every night_. He beat the shit out of me every _day_ … and all you can say is that 'you did what you had to'?"

There was a long moment of silence, Arthur gaping like a fish, Eames staring in horror.

"…I'm _sorry_ ," Arthur finally said, voice cracking. "You're right. You're _right_ , okay?"

Owen shifted on his feet, lip trembling slightly. Arthur was looking positively devastated. Eames waited for whatever was going to happen, nervous and sickened by what had already been said.

"I was only sixteen," Arthur said, voice thick with un-cried tears. "I was _scared_ … I ran away, and I was a coward, and I'm _sorry_ … I should have come back for you, I know that… but… I was afraid of him. Even when I was a fucking adult, I couldn't stop thinking about what he was going to do to me if I went back—I—I know it's stupid but… Owen, he did all that shit to me too, okay? He—he would invite his fucking friends over to do it to me too, and when I tried to tell Mom she didn't believe me… or maybe she just chose not to because she liked the way her life was. I don't know. I really don't… but I'm sorry… I'm _so_ sorry…"

Arthur sank back into his seat, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could shove all the tears threatening to free themselves back into his body. "My fears were so fucking irrational… there wasn't anything he could do, but every time I'd think about it—I'd just— _fuck_ —I couldn't handle it—and I—"

"Stop," Owen said, and it looked like all of the anger had drained out of him. He looked defeated and exhausted. "I… I understand."

"I'm sorry, Owen. I'm so sorry… I didn't know back then that he was doing it to you too… God, I was… so fucking self-centered… How could I have—maybe I just didn't want to believe— _Fuck_! Now I sound just like Mom and—Jesus, no wonder you hate me!"

"I said _stop_ ," Owen complained, smacking him on the shoulder. "I get it, okay?"

"No… no, you don't, okay? You don't know… You don't know how much I fucking _hate_ myself," Arthur said, looking up at him with an expression of shame. "Every morning I get up, and I'm forced to look in the mirror, and all I see is his face. His eyes and his hands… I don't even know what _I_ look like, I guess…"

"You don't… you don't look like him at all," Owen said, and it sounded as if he had just come to the conclusion at that moment. "I mean… your eyes are the same color but… they're not the same. You don't look at me the same way that he did… I don't think you ever could."

"You at least got Mom's eyes," Arthur said quietly.

Eames sat there for a moment while both brothers just stared at each other, waiting for the other to say something. He had wanted to get everything out in the open and move forward, but now he really didn't know what to do. He was just _stuck_ with an overwhelming amount of new information about two people he'd come to care about more than he thought was capable of himself. He was _stuck_ knowing that these horrible things had happened to them, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it. He had expected something bad, but he had hoped for something he could fix or at least attempt to mend… but everything made sense. Owen's fear of his own body and his attacks at Arthur, Arthur's horrible self-image and iciness towards his parents, both of their bad people skills…

"I'm sorry for hitting you," Owen said.

"I'm… sorry I hit you too."

"No, ah—well, I said some really mean stuff. You don't deserve that. I'm the one who started it after all… I guess I just get defensive sometimes, and I'd like to tell you it won't happen again, but… you know, it probably will…"

"Yeah, I know," Arthur said, grabbing hold of Owen's hand.

"So… uh… are we cool?" Owen asked awkwardly. "At least until next time, I mean."

"Yeah…" Arthur said, tugging him by the wrist so he was sitting down next to him. "We're okay."

"Oh, and um…" Owen said, corners of his mouth twitching a little. "I'm really sorry for implying that you're the bottom when you—"

"Shut up!" Arthur laughed, smacking him on the back of the head. Owen snickered, pleased with himself.

Apparently, Eames didn't have to do anything after all.

Well, considering he'd been at a loss, that was a relief.

* * *

It was eight in the morning and Owen had just fallen asleep. Arthur was still cleaning up the mess, and Eames helped even though he was tired.

"It's not over yet, is it?" Eames asked as he folded a shirt and put it back in the laundry bin.

"I don't think it'll ever be _over_ ," Arthur said, scooting a chair underneath the recently righted table. "I think it's a step in the right direction that we both just came out with it though, I guess… Uh… thanks, I guess…"

"That's all I get for working my arse off in an attempt to mend your relationship with your brother? A 'thanks, I guess'? You _are_ a miserable little twat," Eames teased.

Arthur huffed, but he was smiling a little, albeit a sleepy one. "Okay, fine… You have done a lot for us, and I really am eternally grateful. There, is that better? Should I pepper in a 'your majesty' or is that fine?"

Eames placed the basket of newly folded laundry onto the table. "That's fine," he said honestly. "You didn't even have to thank me, Arthur, because I _chose_ to do all of this on my own."

"I know… and I think it's that fact that makes it so… worth being thankful…" he didn't look at Eames as he said it, instead choosing to pick any of the unbroken dishes up off of the floor and put them in the sink. "You didn't have to do any of that, but you did… and considering your history with all the other people in your past, it's a surprising result."

"I know I haven't been the most trustworthy person in the past," Eames shrugged, leaning against the counter, "but I haven't been the most trusting person either. I may be daft for thinking this, but if there is anyone in the business I know I can trust, it's you."

Arthur smirked a little, filling the sink with soapy water, "Well, duh, look at all the blackmail you have on me now. You know I can't swim and I get freaked out by Jack Nicholson—in movies or otherwise, he's just scary… You know I've been diddled by my Dad and still have nightmares about it even as an adult. You know I absolutely _suck_ at being with people, and to top it all off I'm a _coward_. Oh, and let's not forget that you've fucked me up the ass. Twice. Why would I sell someone out who knows that much about me? That's a dangerous game that I'm certainly not willing to play."

"I trusted you before all that," Eames said rather than making a joke. "Well, maybe not before you and I—you know—but ah… I trusted you before I came here."

"Oh?... and why is that?" Arthur asked, trying to sound skeptical, but it just came out sounding vulnerable.

"Because you trust me."

"What makes you think I trust you?" Arthur asked, and his voice was even more exposed than before.

"Oh, I don't know," Eames said, pushing away from the counter to slowly approach the point man. "You let me inside even when you didn't want me here, and you let me stay and help you. You never once questioned if I was intending to sell you up the river. You let me see you in states I'm sure very few people have seen you in…" he planted his hands on Arthur's shoulders, making him jump a little at the sudden contact. "…and forgive me if I'm wrong, but I do believe I may be the only person who has ever seen you cry."

"…I… I didn't mean to just… break down like that," Arthur mumbled, and Eames kneaded his shoulders, feeling the tenseness there just start to melt away. "I don't want to look so weak…"

"It wasn't weakness," Eames said softly.

"It was… I lost control of myself. I don't like doing that."

"You can't control everything all the time, love. Sometimes it's okay to let other people take the wheel. There are people in your life who can pick up the slack."

"That didn't used to be true," Arthur said, voice shaky.

"I know how it is," Eames replied. "If you remember, I was quiet the pathetic little mess that night in Amsterdam, back when I thought I was all alone in the world."

"You think I pity-fucked you?" Arthur asked, placing a washed cup into the other side of the sink.

"Why else would you have—"

"I knew exactly what you were talking about," Arthur said, finally turning to make eye contact, forcing their bodies to be pressed flush against each other. He only took a moment to notice the position before he cleared his throat and continued, "I didn't even know why I felt so down all the time until you started talking about how alone you felt, and I realized that I felt… _exactly_ the same way. I didn't have any idea that anyone else felt like I did… I didn't even realize how scared I was of even attempting to trust someone until then… and I guess I was disgusted with myself for letting what happened to me turn me into such a weakling… and you were being so… _amazing_ in the fact that you could admit all of this stuff about yourself out loud when I couldn't even accept it on the inside."

"So… you fucked me because you were _impressed_?" Eames asked, unable to help the mischievous little grin that spread across his face. "That's not what I expected."

"I wanted to be braver… and bolder… and you know, alcohol and all that…"

"It had nothing to do with my good looks or my hand on your knee then?" Eames asked.

"It might have," Arthur admitted, blushing a little. "I was a little shocked when everything started happening because I didn't think someone like you would go for… someone like me."

"That's because you don't realize how beautiful you really are."

Arthur's blush deepened, and he averted his eyes, frowning. "You're so full of shit."

"So, what really happened in Germany then?" Eames asked then. "You had wanted us to be a one night stand, and when it turned out that we weren't, you distanced yourself."

"I—you—you kissed me, and I—I guess I lost control of myself again… I didn't want anyone to know I felt so alone, but you noticed it immediately, and I—uh… I don't know. I couldn't stop myself… When I realized what I'd done, I—I felt like such a fucking tool because I used you to make me feel less alone, and… you didn't deserve that because you were genuinely being nice to me, and I knew that you wouldn't do that for just anyone… so I tried to distance myself so I wouldn't hurt you."

"You weren't afraid of me then," Eames said, leaning in closer as if to remind Arthur of that night when he'd said as much.

"I kept thinking that I should have been… just because you were a man. I kept thinking that I shouldn't _like_ what you would do to me, but… it's just that—God, I'm so embarrassed admitting this—it's just that you didn't hold me down or touch me harshly or force me to do anything… You ah—you showed me that getting fucked—it—it didn't always have to be like how he did…" his voice cracked at the end of the sentence, and he rolled his eyes, annoyed at himself. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm getting choked up over this shit. How pathetic am I? Fuck…"

Eames shook his head at him and pulled him into an embrace. Arthur shook beneath his fingers, but he held back on his tears by taking a few deep breaths.

"…I fucked you in Germany because I missed you…" Arthur admitted into the fabric of Eames's shirt.

"I fucked you in Germany because I'm in love with you," Eames replied lightly. "We all have our reasons, I suppose."

Arthur shoved away from him so that Eames could see the look of astonishment on his face, and Eames had expected such a response. "Wh—wh—what'd you say?" Arthur stammered.

Eames sighed as if he was dealing with a stubborn child. "I said that I love you, you clot. I fell in love with you that night in Amsterdam when you let me into your world, and I've been sinking further into this hole of ooey-gooey mush and _feelings_ ever since. It's quite embarrassing really. I hadn't ever intended on doing such a thing, you see, but I guess you made me feel like I wasn't so alone anymore."

"You… _love_ me?" Arthur asked, eyes wide and worried, like he was waiting for the punch line.

"Why else would I have gone looking for you? Sure, I was hoping to get your help on this job, but I didn't have to come find you. I didn't have to spend four days on a computer trying to. I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure that you were all right."

"…but… nobody _loves_ me," Arthur snorted as if the idea was ridiculous. It seemed to hurt him more than humor him though. It most definitely hurt Eames to hear.

"You really are stupid, aren't you," Eames said, touching his face with just his fingertips. "I know that your past hasn't exactly given you much confidence in the whole concept of 'love' or whatnot. I didn't believe it myself until recently… but I know how I feel. There's nothing you can say that can convince me otherwise. Perhaps I'm just the lucky first to see all of the great things you are beneath that giant brick wall you've built between you and everyone else."

"Great things?" Arthur asked, voice breaking again.

"Like… how you get freaked out by Jack Nicholson and how you can't swim and how you suck with people and can tend to be a coward sometimes. Like… how you're adorable when you're in your pajamas and bedhead and how your smile lights up the entire room that you're in and how you hide under the covers when you're scared… like the way you hold onto my arms and the way you say my name… the way you trust me even when nobody else does."

"All those things sound really lame…" Arthur said.

"They're not," Eames said. "They're more important to me than anything."

There was a long moment of awkward silence where they just stared into each other's eyes, and then Arthur said, "Would you believe me if I told you that I ran from you after Germany because I was afraid… that I might have been falling in love with you?"

"You shouldn't bother running from me anymore, darling. I'll always find you."

Arthur grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him.

When he pulled away, he said, "That… that was what I was going to tell you before… but I was afraid you would leave… and then I woke up and you were gone, and I thought—I thought I'd screwed it up anyways."

"I'm not going anywhere," Eames said and kissed him again.

* * *

Owen had another night terror a few days later, but Arthur seemed to come to a conclusion that could help him.

Eames found Arthur in Owen's room with his arm around him, the boy seeming to have calmed down but still shaken up, and Arthur was speaking quietly to him.

"A good friend of mine gave me this idea for when dreams felt too much like reality and I couldn't tell the difference," Arthur explained, digging into his pocket until he revealed his red loaded die. "It's called a totem. See, the thing is, it's an item I know everything about, an item that no one else knows the exact shape or weight of. In my dreams I can roll this and it'll come out in different numbers. It feels different in dreams. In reality, it'll roll the same way every time. The result will always be the same. I can help you find one, and the next time you have a nightmare, all you have to do is check your totem, and you'll remember what's real."

"Does that really work?" Owen asked in wonder, reaching for it but Arthur pulled it away.

"It does. That's why I can't let you touch mine, of course… but, see, in my line of work, I need this to keep myself grounded."

"Oh, the dreaming thing?" Owen asked, blinking, and Arthur stared at him in surprise. Eames was also surprised. "Uh… yeah," Owen continued sheepishly. "I found that suitcase machine thingy in the closet, and I looked it up on the internet until I found out what it was. So, you work for the government or something?"

"Actually, I work on the other side of the dreaming community," Arthur admitted.

"So… you're a criminal? You _steal_ from people's minds?"

"…basically…"

Owen smiled. "That is _so_ cool."

Arthur smiled too. "Don't tell anyone."

"Will you let me try it, Arthur? Come on, I want to try it!"

"Maybe some time in the future," Arthur said. "Let me teach you the basics of lucid dreaming before then, all right?"

The next day, Owen apparently found himself a totem, but he wouldn't let either of the two men see it.

He did however let Arthur see the red coffee cup he'd bought for him that looked almost identical to the one Mal had given him all those years ago. Eames had pretended that he didn't see Arthur wipe away a stray tear when he saw it sitting in the cupboard.

* * *

Three months passed. Eames could suffice to say he was living with Arthur and Owen for sure by then. He'd even gone to extra measures (with Arthur's help) to make their apartment vanish from anyone's radar so that it was a perfect safe house (though most of Eames's current jobs were low risk—it was amazing how much less of a daredevil he'd become when he had something to come home to).

Arthur groaned, fingers clawing at Eames's shoulders for support as Eames thrust inside, leaving sloppy kisses along his neck. "Fuck— _Eames_ ," he choked, gasping for air.

Arthur was working from home during the school year so that Owen could attend classes, but the three of them all had plans to go traveling for work (Owen had insisted that they take him with them because he wanted to see the world—even if he couldn't bring back a bunch of pictures for his friends to see—and he didn't want to keep Arthur in L.A. so that he could be with Eames more often). Eames however was planning on leaving for India first thing in the morning (with Arthur's notes in tow), and so of course he had to give him a proper goodbye.

Eames bit down on Arthur's shoulder and then licked the pain away, pulling out before slamming back in, making Arthur whimper and bite back on a scream.

"Does that feel good, darling?" Eames whispered, and all Arthur could do was nod, mouth hanging open, eyes rolling back in his head.

Arthur and he had never really _said_ that they were a couple after that afternoon in the kitchen, but they'd been having sex and sleeping in the same bed and all that jazz since then, so the idea was there. Arthur and he would fuck whenever they could, and Eames couldn't think of a time when they'd gone longer than a week without doing so when work wasn't involved (the time when he'd gone without was his own fault of course—it turned out that Arthur didn't think it was funny when he came into the bathroom with the line "Here's Johnny!" in his best Nicholson voice).

"Eames— _nn_ —So close— _aah_ —"

"I know, I know," Eames grunted, squeezing the sweat-slicked muscle of the thigh currently wrapped around his waist. "Hold out for me, love— _ohh_ —"

"Sounds like you're the one who needs to hold out," Arthur teased breathlessly, and Eames could tell that holding out was not much of an option at this point. "Fuck— _fuck_ —" He apparently couldn't take it because he released one of Eames's shoulders and reached between them to jerk himself off, and it only took three tugs before he was coming, spilling all over his stomach with a high-pitched moan. The sound was all it took to make Eames's hips stutter and have him growl into Arthur's skin as he came too.

He held on, Arthur kissing him through the entirety of his orgasm, and then he collapsed next to him with a heaving sigh. "Oh, yeah…" Eames said, reaching over to curl his fingers into Arthur's hair. "I'm most definitely going to miss you while I'm gone."

"You'll survive," Arthur replied, still gasping for air as he used tissues from the bedside table to clean himself off. "It's only for a few weeks… just wake me up before you go, or I'll never forgive you."

"Yes, you will," Eames said, tugging Arthur into his arms and planting little kisses along his jawline.

"Maybe so, but you'd better not give me the option to decide," Arthur said, tilting his jaw so Eames could mouth at his neck. "You're not the only one who's going to be going without for a few weeks."

"Would you like for me to ravish you in the morning?" Eames asked.

"When my hair's all matted and I've got stubble and morning breath? Are you out of your mind?"

"You're bloody gorgeous in the morning," Eames replied, slipping a hand down to touch Arthur's still sensitive member, causing him to squeak.

Eames made sure to keep telling Arthur all the time how beautiful he was. Maybe eventually he'd start to believe it.

"Stop…" Arthur chuckled, trying to move away from Eames's hand. "I'm not ready to go again. If I'm not then you can't be."

"Are you mocking my age?"

Arthur laughed, so Eames cut him off by kissing him silent.

…but he swore he could hear something going on outside their bedroom door.

Arthur made a small sound, letting Eames's tongue inside, and Eames forgot about the sounds… mostly…

"What are they even doing in there?" a whispered voice.

"This is a bad idea."

"I didn't know you were such a homophobe, Tyler."

That sounded like Owen.

"I'm not a homophobe, okay? I live in California for Christ's sakes—I'm just saying that that one guy is kind of big and scary—"

"He is not."

Arthur's hands slipped up into Eames's hair, and again he was distracted from the sound…

…at least until the door was kicked open and both of them were pelted with silly string.

"Oh, what the fuck?" Arthur shouted, looking some combination of annoyed and terrified.

Owen and his friends quickly bolted from the room, howling in laughter, and Eames was stumbling out of bed and into his boxer shorts to chase them.

"YOU DAMN KIDS!" Arthur shouted, but he was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe.

Eames caught them before they got Owen's bedroom door shut and dragged them back out into the hallway. They were falling all over each other, still spraying the silly string at each other and at Eames as tears of mirth spilled down their face. Eames didn't care that he'd stretched out the collar of Owen's tight t-shirt, or the fact that the knees of his new jeans were sliding around on the silly string and mashing it into the carpet.

"You're lucky I put on my shorts," Eames said, trying to be stern, but it was so fucking ridiculous that it wasn't looking possible.

"It was revenge for you paintballing me!" Owen complained, and Eames swore he was wearing Arthur's bitch-face.

"All's fair in paintball war," Eames replied, shrugging.

"There wasn't a _war_!" Owen shouted. "We were in the _kitchen_!"

"Still, you knew I had a paintball gun," Eames said. He sensed Arthur as he came to lean against the doorframe of his room.

"You know… he's right about that. I never did get revenge on you for ruining that Dunhill suit," Arthur said.

Owen's friend Brandon tossed Arthur a can of silly string, and they all turned their efforts on Eames.

…and really, he should have felt offended and even betrayed…

…but he couldn't even be angry when Arthur and Owen were smiling like that.


End file.
